The Time It Takes
by aethershine
Summary: "I asked Finnick once how he knew he loved Annie, and he said she snuck up on him. I think after all this time it has been the same for me." This story is a version of how Peeta and Katniss grow to love one another in the end, but it stays true to Katniss's character in a way that my reviewers have said is unique. I promise a few surprises along the way. Spoilers. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The story cover for this piece is attributed to Courtney Carmody on Flickr**

The Time It Takes

Weeks passed without more than a few words spoken now and then. Pleasantries regarding the weather, a please, a thank you, the trappings of civility. Seeing one another in passing became a walk together to get into town. Moments sitting on the steps lead to a shared meal. When the blank pages arrive from Dr. Aurelius, I use the telephone to call Peeta.

"It's me," I say blankly into the phone. Part of me recognizes that this is unnecessary. Who else would be calling Peeta? Everyone else in his life is dead. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over to have something to eat."

"Okay," he says, his voice slightly more animated than mine, but not much.

"And bring your paints."

"All right." He hangs up before I do.

This is the longest string of words I've said to him at one time in months.

The first night I just stare at the blank pages, not knowing where to begin. Peeta sits in the rocking chair by the window, moonlight cutting across his face, obscuring half of it.

At one point I begin to cry, shuffling through the pages, trying to find where to begin. He doesn't move from the chair to try to comfort me. For some reason this makes me feel better. The old Peeta would have rushed to my side to try to take away my pain. This new Peeta marks the change in our lives, what we have lost. He understands that there is nothing he can do, that things are irrevocably broken, and that the only way to move on is to let the pain do its work.

But he doesn't leave either.

The next afternoon is better. I find I work better in the light, feel surer of the room since I know where all the shadows are, and that there is nothing waiting for me in them. Days turn into weeks and we begin to work on the pages together, allowing more and more words to pass between us. At first it is simple descriptions, and then memories and then feelings.

Feelings come easier to Peeta, but then they always have. Peeta is angry, but somehow he is better at finding the root of the issue. He is angry because he was tortured. He feels betrayed by people who were supposed to be his allies. He feels confused about what happened between us. He feels sad about the loss of life, what happened to my sister. He mourns his family.

I find that I have to concentrate very hard to describe how I feel about the things that happened, but in truth, most of how I feel is angry.

Late one afternoon we are sitting at the kitchen table, which we have pushed up against the wall underneath the window for the light. We leave it like this all of the time now since we are the only two people who eat here. We take most of our meals together now. We part after dinner and Peeta returns to his house. He knocks on my front door in the morning and we have breakfast, resuming wherever we left off the day before.

We are sitting side by side, the sun streaming in through the window. Peeta is focusing on a drawing of an oyster shell. I am staring out the window. I lean forward to reach across him to take a piece of paper. The movement is natural, almost lazy.

Suddenly Peeta seizes my wrist. An odd thought crosses my mind, taking me away from the insanity of what is happening.

_This is the first time he has touched me purposefully since we've been home_.

My mind snaps back to reality, which is that Peeta has my wrist clamped in his vice-like grip, and though it is not quite hard enough to make the bones rub together, the pain is severe. I emit a sharp cry of surprise, looking at his face to try to understand. His eyes are closed and he seems to be gritting his teeth, but he makes no sound.

"Peeta!" I cry. "Let go of me!"

But he does not relent. Tears are running from his closed eyes, and I can see the muscles tense in his jaw.

"Peeta, please stop," I say, fighting for control of my voice, as I have begun to shake. I start to look around the table for some kind of a weapon. I try to stand, to pull away, but this makes him squeeze harder, so that now the bones are rubbing together. I emit a short scream, and am bringing my other arm across my body, preparing to elbow him in the face, when suddenly his grip is gone. He is up and out of his chair, toppling it over as he moves. He is standing in the corner of the kitchen before I can blink. His back is to the corner, hands behind him. He is looking at me.

I take several steps backward, gripping my wrist with my other hand. It is already hot and swelling.

"Peeta," I say, trying to infuse my voice with calm. I am about to continue when he speaks.

"Katniss, I am so sorry."

"It is nothing…" I start to say.

"You were reaching for the paper. Real or not real?"

"Real."

"I thought you were going to strangle me," he says, his voice betraying fear.

"I would never do that Peeta," I say.

"I know, I know," he says, shuddering and shaking his head. "Are you hurt?" he asks, but makes no move to come see for himself.

"I'm fine. It'll bruise a little, but it's nothing."

He nods his head. I can see that he is shaking, and I decide that I should stay where I am for the moment.

"Why do you think they let me come back here?" he asks, his voice hollow.

I am standing near the sink and there is a long kitchen knife sitting in its bottom. I turn away from him slightly and turn the water on cold. I put my wrist under the flow of water before answering.

"I think they sent you back here because this is your home."

" I think they sent me back here so that I would kill you."

I keep my hand in the sink, under the stream of water, hovering over the knife. I level a look in his eyes. He is sweating and breathing a bit heavily, but his eyes seem normal.

"Are you planning on hurting me Peeta?" I ask, trying to sound dismissive of the idea.

"What I plan to do and what I actually do haven't exactly been one and the same for a while, Katniss," he says, exhaling.

"I think you've been doing really well…this is the first time that you…"

"No it isn't," he says, and my heart falls to my feet. "It gets bad at night. Sometimes I see things, hear voices. Half the time I wake up convinced that you are standing over my bed ready to kill me. I jump up and get halfway down the hall before I realize that you aren't there…that it was just a dream…a nightmare."

By the time he's finished talking he is leaning into the wall, shaking.

"What if they sent me here to kill you?"

I consider this for a moment.

"What makes anyone think I'd be so easy to kill?" I ask, my voice light, though I feel like the knife under my hand is lodged in my heart.

"Maybe, they figure we will end up killing one another…be done with the both of us," he answers, looking away, but not before I see the corner of his mouth turn up.

I face my body toward the sink, turning my head completely away from him. I open and close my hand a few times under the water before turning off the tap. I give the knife one more look before I grab a towel to dry my hands and cross back to the kitchen table. I pick up his chair, working a little bit to hide the pain in my wrist and place it next to mine. I sit down in my own chair and draw it up closer to the table.

"Do you know where the saying "star crossed lovers" comes from?" I ask, looking up at him.

He looks back at me for a moment before he shakes his head.

"I asked Cinna about it once because it sounded so pretty," I begin. "It is a line from a play, written a long time before the first war. It is about two people, two children actually, who were so in love that when they thought they couldn't be together, they killed themselves."

Peeta furrows his brow, as if he's trying to comprehend what I am telling him.

"Why didn't they just run away?" he asks.

"I asked Cinna that too, and he said that they couldn't, that they were members of powerful families who wouldn't let them go. That they had no way of choosing for themselves."

Peeta sits in his chair, though it is obvious that he is leaning away from me. I turn in my chair so that I am facing him, trying to make up for the space he is putting between us. I am afraid to get too close to him, but I don't want him to know that.

"That story sounds kind of miserable," he says softly, shooting me a quick look.

"Yeah, Cinna wasn't much of a fan," I say, smiling.

Several minutes pass and neither of us speak or move. Finally, I say the words that need to be said.

"Peeta, whether or not they sent you here to kill me is really irrelevant. People have already done that...three times to be exact. Once in the first arena, again in the second, and then when they tortured you and let you be rescued and brought to me. The difference now is that we have a choice."

"But Katniss, what if I just lose it and I snap and something happens! That won't happen by choice…I will be blind and out of control." He's turned towards me now, and is leaning across the distance between us. It is all I can do to not crawl backwards over the top of my chair to get away from him. I force myself to be still.

"Well," I let out a long breath, "I'm not exactly defenseless. We'll take steps. We'll try to figure out what triggers it. What else can we do?"

"I can stay away from you," he says so quickly, averting his eyes.

"Not an option," I say, my voice firm and angry. "You are my only friend. We are getting better. If we decide to stop this now, then I may as well just be…" I trail off.

"Dead?" he asks, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Not you Katniss. You aren't the dying type."

My anger rapidly turns into indignation, which I quickly realize is ridiculous because, well, he's right. Despite everything, despite being shot and burned and everything else, despite everyone's attempts to kill me, including Peeta's, I am still alive.

"Perhaps I have been lucky," I concede, forcing myself not to smile at all. "But I do have my limits. And I draw the line at our not being friends anymore."

"That is the line?" he asks, his question rounded by the grin on his face.

"Yes." I raise my chin in defiance, pointedly refusing to smile. With that he starts laughing. It isn't his old laugh, the one that was so easy and full of sunlight. But it is genuine. He turns back to the painting, picking up the brush and resuming his work on the oyster.

I sit facing him for several minutes, watching him paint. In truth I am a little afraid to move, as if the spell of normalcy may vanish if I even so much as breathe. The sun has moved lower in the sky, signaling that the day is near its end. It is casting a pale orange light into the kitchen. After a while I stand and move to the sink.

"What would you like for dinner?" I ask, turning on the sink and beginning to wash the knife.

"I have some bread at the house…do you have anything to make sandwiches?" he asks, moving to start clearing the table.

"I'm sure I have something." I dry the knife, looking at my reflection in its long blade, before sliding it into the butcher's block.

"All right, I'll run home and get the bread."

I nod but say nothing.

He stops as he is passing me.

"Are you really okay?" he asks, remorse heavy in his voice.

"Yes, Peeta, I have been shot before…this is nothing."

"No, I know…I guess what I mean is, are we okay?"

I can't lie to him because I am so close to crying. I take a deep breath and will myself to be strong. I avoid his gaze until the last moment.

"Today wasn't the best day we've had, but I think we'll bounce back. We'll be okay." I want to reach out, to give his hand a squeeze, something to tell him that everything is fine, but I can't, not yet.

He nods.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

As soon as he is gone, I sink to the floor, tears welling in my eyes as I clutch my injured wrist to my chest. I know that he will be back soon, and that I will have to figure out a way to get past this.

I know that I can do it.

I hope that I can.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two – Missing Buttercup

I've been sitting on the front porch for the past two hours watching a break in the grass at the edge of the field across the street. The two-foot tall stalks lean away from one another slightly, suggesting a passage between them. They occasionally sway gently in the afternoon breeze, but never in the way that I want them to, the way that would suggest purposeful movement within them. The way they would move if a cat were about to walk out of the field.

Buttercup has been gone for a more than a week. Since our reunion several months ago we've forged an awkward bond, at once bittersweet and adversarial. He still hisses at me when I threaten his life, but we sleep together at night. When I wake up screaming from nightmares he purrs on the pillow near my head and it calms me down. It works for us.

Or at least it had been working for us until eight days ago when he didn't return home at sunset. For the first day or two I didn't think too much about it. He's used to being on his own and pretty good at taking care of himself. And it's not like he's really my cat. By the third day I was starting to get worried.

On the fourth day Peeta suggested that maybe I could track him, but I spent the better part of that day and the next cursing myself for not starting the hunt sooner. I've never tracked cats before but I now know that it is ridiculously hard. I haven't made it more than a few yards from the house tracking any of his known escape and re-entry routes before turning back in disgust. My wide-ranging tactics have turned up nothing. It is like he has vanished.

"Hey," Peeta says, startling me as he makes his way onto the steps. I'd been concentrating so hard on the field that I hadn't noticed his approach. He sits on the step above mine, his knee grazing my shoulder. "Any sign."

"No," I say sullenly. "Honestly, I'd be relieved to find a body at this point. Not knowing is killing me."

"Still haven't been able to sleep since he's been gone?" he asks gently.

I sigh.

"I sleep just fine for an hour or so, until I wake up screaming. Having him there…it just helped. You know?" I look over my shoulder at him.

He's looking at me nodding his head, but he doesn't say anything. I know what he is thinking. That at one time he was the one to comfort me after my nightmares. We don't say these kinds of things to one another or bring up the way that things used to be between us. It is like some unspoken agreement between us. But we often stare at one another and nod, as if we know that the other one is remembering.

"You should go see Doc Lou. Those treatments that she prescribed for my nightmares have worked out great. They aren't gone completely, but at least I sleep. Maybe she can help you."

Doc Lou has been treating Peeta for his nightmares for almost two months. I took him to her after it became obvious that he wasn't sleeping at all because the nightmares were ravaging him. She is a kind older woman, one of the first people to move back to District Twelve since resettlement began, and though I don't know if she is an actual doctor, she is definitely a healer like my mother. Everyone calls her Doc and she lets them.

"Are you still taking the sleep syrup?" I ask. Doc Lou prescribed a high dose of sleep syrup in an attempt to break the cycle of the nightmares. Apparently she has some experience treating victims of torture, but how and where she did that she's never said. And I don't ask. Since the nightmares have been subsiding she's been weaning him off of the drug, as it's highly addictive.

"I'm almost completely weaned off of it," he says bumping my shoulder with his knee.

Along with helping with his nightmares, Doc Lou has been helping Peeta deal with his flashes. Touching one another is part of her cure, something that neither of us was really comfortable with when she first described it to us, but I've gotten used to it for the most part. We don't hold hands or anything. We just sit closer together, or let our shoulders brush when we're walking. At first it felt completely forced, but now it is almost natural. If I'm honest with myself intentionally keeping my distance from Peeta is what felt forced. It was necessary for safety purposes, but it never felt right.

His flashes are better. He figured out that when the flash happens if he holds on for a few seconds what is actually happening in reality will overturn the flash. It is only when he reacts to the flash that it overwhelms and confuses him. He's gotten pretty good at catching himself.

He's only really scared me one time since he started working with Doc Lou and that was at the very beginning.

"So are you going to go see her?"

I shift around a bit on the porch step as if I'm trying to see further into the field, but really it is because I don't want him to touch me. Because if he's touching me I feel certain that he will be able to sense the lie I am about to tell.

"Maybe."

"Katniss," he exhales, "what are you waiting for?"

I look back at him to see the exasperated expression on his face. He looks genuinely bewildered and worried. I feel guilty, so I drop my gaze and tell him the truth.

"I'm afraid of it, okay? When I was taking morphling I still had nightmares, only I couldn't wake up…I'd be trapped. I don't want to feel like that again."

He's quiet for such a long time that I have to look up to see what he's thinking. But he's staring off. And I know that this is one of those remembering moments that we don't talk about because I am sure that Peeta is thinking about his own nightmares trapped in morphling, and worse, venom.

I lean my shoulder into his knee and he looks back at me, blue eyes searching my eyes and my face for something. I don't know what. I turn up one side of my mouth into a smile. He returns it.

"I want to show you something," he says, suddenly looking hopeful.

"I have to stay here and wait for that damn cat," I say, exasperated.

"He'll come home when he's ready, Katniss. Ten minutes of your being gone isn't going to make a difference."

"All right, fine," I say, defeated, and get to my feet. Peeta leans heavily on the porch bannister when he stands to keep from putting too much weight on his artificial leg.

"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice saturated in mock irritation. He doesn't rise to the bait.

"It's a surprise," he says, grinning at me.

I sigh. I've gotta hand it to him. Despite everything he's been through, he somehow still manages to be genuinely happy sometimes. I decide that I need to improve my attitude.

Like that will happen.

We make the walk to his house in silence, a trip that takes about a minute. As we're mounting the porch he says,

"Oh, I almost forgot. Haymitch invited us to dinner. He said sometime next week we should come over."

"Ugh! Not again, Peeta. Don't you remember the last time? Him so drunk he couldn't stand, roasting that goose and yelling about it being a sacrifice to the heathen gods? It was awful."

"Yes, and?"

"Sometimes I just feel like…" I pause for a few moments. We are standing at the front door.

"We are getting better," I say, looking into his eyes. "You've dealt with your flashes for the most part. You're baking again. I hunt. I know we're both still sad and worn out and that we'll never be completely right. The nightmares…they are a problem. It's not perfect, we have our moments, I know. But Haymitch…he's never going to change. It is just too hard to be around him."

Peeta listens to me, nodding his head. He looks down, as if gathering his thoughts.

"Where would you be if it wasn't for Haymitch?" he asks, his voice gentle, but his words slam into my chest like a wrecking ball. I drop my gaze, ashamed.

"Dead," I say.

"You owe him some tolerance. And how do you know he'll never change?"

I shake my head at him in disbelief.

"How can you just forgive him for everything he did, especially to you?"

He smirks crookedly.

"How I figure it…by saving you, he saved me by proxy."

We stand at the front door staring at one another. I feel frustrated with him and his lack of resentment, but then maybe he's right. Maybe forgiving Haymitch is the right thing to do. Right now, the way that Peeta is looking at me, I'm pretty sure it's inevitable.

"He's like family, Katniss." He opens the door to his house and holds it for me to walk in.

"Now that's the crazy talking," I sigh.

I haven't been in Peeta's house in a while. It is fresh and clean and smells like bread and clean laundry. He has very simple, minimal furniture. Everything is tidy and in its place.

"Have you been having Greasy Sae here to clean?"

"No, why?"

I feel embarrassed. I've still been having her to the house to help me, and my place doesn't look or feel this well kept.

"It's just…it's nice in here."

As if he's read my mind he says absently,

"It's easy to keep clean when I spend most of my days either outside or at your house. I only come here to bake and sleep."

I still feel like a slob.

"Where is the thing you want me to see?"

"Upstairs, in my bedroom."

We climb to the second floor. It strikes me that I've never been in a man's bedroom before. This is of course absurd because I spent the better part of a year living in shared living spaces and soldier's quarters with members of the opposite sex, not to mention all of the shared sleeping spaces I've kept with Peeta. But somehow this feels different.

And it makes me nervous for reasons that I can't quite put my finger on.

We're standing at the door before I know it and he's telling me to go in as he's pushing the door open ahead of me.

At first I don't know what I'm seeing.

The room is identical to mine in size and dimensions, which means that it is bigger than the kitchen and living room of my old house, but it is by no means enormous. A large window is on the far wall, letting light pour in. The room is sparsely furnished, a bed, a bureau, and a desk. It is neat and tidy and smells faintly of Peeta's soap.

I take all of this in, but it is the walls that have captured my full attention. They are covered in murals. No…one mural, one panoramic mural that covers all four walls from floor to ceiling.

The Capitol.

"What is this?" I gasp. "Peeta, why would you do this?"

"At night, I sleep with the lights on, so that if I have a nightmare, it is the first thing I see. It helps me to calm down."

I look at him, confused.

"Calm down? How would this help you to calm down? Peeta this is the Capitol…they tortured you there!" I'm starting to panic, feel like the walls are closing in. Peeta's brow furrows for a moment, but then he appears to understand something.

"No…Katniss look around. Look at what day it is."

I can see he has something to show me, so I will myself to calm down. I start looking closely at the pictures. The detail is incredible, realistic down to the reflections on glass. As I look around it slowly starts to come together.

"The roof of the training center," I say absently, reaching out to touch the wall.

"Yes," he says. "I tried to get every detail perfect about that last day on the roof before the Quarter Quell. Do you remember?"

"I remember," I say faintly, running my hand along the section with the greenhouse that housed the chimes.

"I'm out of paint now, but I plan on adding a few things here and there, and I also want to try to get the light accents right so that it will look like it did at sunset."

He's looking at the wall, but I'm looking at him, amazed again at his resilience.

"How does this calm you down…it's still the Capitol."

"I know. But it's not so much about the place as it is about the day. That was a great day…maybe the best of my life. Thinking about it…it's gotten me through a lot of things."

I look at him and I'm nodding my head. I don't say anything. I'm thinking back to that day and how it may very well rank at the top of my list of days as well. It is so strange, knowing all that came after, that one day could make so much difference.

He's nodding his head at me as well.

"Well…it's beautiful. You are very talented. And if you say it helps you then I'm glad you did it."

"I was thinking…when I get new paint, maybe I could paint something in your room. The woods, maybe? I know how happy you are when you're there, and maybe it could help with your nightmares."

I smile at him.

"I'd like that."

"Good," he says, and he seems relieved.

A few moments of silence pass as I look around the room.

"We can go back and wait for Buttercup now, if it will make you feel better."

"No," I say, sitting on the chair by the desk. "I just want to stay here for a little while. He'll come home when he's ready, right?"

"Yes, he will." He comes and stands next to me, his hip grazing my shoulder.

"So Haymitch's next week?" I say, staring at the greenhouse and feeling calmer by the second.

"Yep."

"We can't keep letting him cook his geese."

"Yeah, maybe we should offer to bring dinner."

"Sounds like a plan," I murmur and lean my shoulder into him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Watching Day

Peeta is having a bad day.

I know it from the moment he walks through my front door.

He is the quintessential morning person, a quality that I will never understand. He normally walks through the front door of my house at seven o'clock in the morning, humming happily to himself and carrying a loaf or two of bread that he baked, probably at five o'clock that morning. I tolerate him at this hour only because it is Peeta and he's bringing me bread. Even in the old days, prior to the games, when I went out early to hunt it was a solitary mission…I am simply not fit for conversation before 8 am.

But this morning he is silent. The door is left slightly ajar behind him as he enters despite the cold that trails in after him. He carries no bread.

I descend the stairs on the balls of my feet, quietly close the door, and drift into the kitchen behind him.

"Peeta," I say softly.

He stops and waits before he turns. He is wearing trousers and a t-shirt with no coat. His feet are bare. Many seconds pass before he faces me.

The dark circles beneath his eyes, white-knuckle fists by his sides tell me everything I need to know, and I feel sick to my stomach.

Today is a watching day.

"Katniss."

I smile at him gently.

"Would you like some tea?" I ask, and draw him toward the table, pulling out his chair. He sits awkwardly on the edge.

"Sure." He drops the word like a stone. I doubt he even knows what I asked.

I move slowly around the kitchen, drawing water for tea, pulling a couple of scones out of the cupboard. They are a few days old but still edible and I want him to eat. I wait by the stove for the water to boil, my back to him, watching him in the reflection of the teapot. I see him tense and relax several times over the minutes it takes for the water to boil, but I do not move. I make myself a presence in the room, nothing more.

Once the tea has been poured I turn back to him. He regards me with eyes that are like black pools. I smile at him, careful not to show any teeth.

"Sugar?"

He nods, not looking away from me. I fix our tea and scones, placing the plates and cups side by side at the table before I sit down next to him. Even though I am not ready to eat, I take a bite of my scone. I find that on watching days it is helpful to him to see me do things first. It helps him to know what to do. As if on cue, he picks up his scone and takes a bite.

"What do you think about cancelling with Haymitch today?" I ask.

"Why," he says, not a question. His affect is entirely flat.

"I'm tired," I lie, and turn toward him slightly, making sure to touch his wrist with the side of my hand ever so slightly as I shift. He looks down at my hand and his eyes stay there, watching.

"You just woke up," he whispers.

"I didn't sleep well."

"Nightmares," he says. I know he means it as a question, even though it may as well be a statement. I have nightmares every night.

"Yes."

"I strangled you. Real or not real."

I feel my whole body stiffen, and every instinct tells me to move away, but I stay still, cold dread settling on me like a shroud.

"Real," I whisper.

He looks at me and his eyes are glassed over with tears and still very, very black. The pupils are almost completely dilated.

"Why would I do that to you?" he asks, emotion breaking through, tears spilling down his face.

My throat is tight and feels like it's made of a million strings that are being pulled from somewhere down in my stomach. I don't want to have this conversation again. We have it every couple of months on the watching days, and every time it feels like I am going to die, like the breath is being squeezed out of me. I see black spots in front of my eyes.

"You didn't really do it…you were sick and confused. You weren't really you."

"Am I me now?"

"Yes," I answer very quickly. "I think maybe you need a bit more rest, but you are you."

"Can I rest here?"

"Of course."

He stands up without another word and walks down the hall, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I know this because I'm listening to the sound of his feet on the floor above me. I hear the bed creak as he sits on it, and then again as he lays in it, and then nothing.

I know it will be hours before he emerges, and when he does he'll be confused and guilty. I go upstairs once or twice, peeking my head in the door to check on him, but he is sleeping soundly.

At around four o'clock I decide that I need to get dressed and go see Haymitch. I've been putting it off, using Peeta sleeping in the bedroom as an excuse for not dressing and going to Haymitch's to make our excuses, but at this point he'll be expecting us soon. I curse him for the thousandth time for not keeping his phone in working order. I sneak into the bedroom, grab yesterday's clothes from the chair, and dress in the hall. I take one last look at Peeta before I leave.

When I arrive at Haymitch's, I realize that he is also in a state.

"Is it a full moon?" I wonder aloud, as Haymitch lifts two bottles up in toast, and tries to drink from both of them simultaneously. The result is that most of the liquor pores down the front of his shirt, which from the looks of it, could benefit from a washing.

"Where's your better half?" he slurs, saliva and liquor dripping out of the side of his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"He's not well," I say. "Doesn't look like you're in great shape either." I look at him, making an attempt to hide my disgust and failing miserably.

"Naw…I'm fine. But thanks for your concern sweetheart."

"Okay," I say, as genially as I can, "I just wanted to let you know that we won't be coming for dinner tonight and we'll have to do it another time."

"Was that tonight? I gotta get my calendar straight…I thought it was next week."

"It was actually supposed to be a month ago, but when we showed up you were passed out in your own vomit. Peeta rescheduled it with you a couple of days ago, but obviously, you were too drunk to remember." I'm so angry I feel like I could spit nails at him. I don't know why I'm so mad at him. He's a drunk, it's who he is. I've spent most of my energy for the day watching Peeta, so why am I wasting what's left of it being pissed off at Haymitch?

I turn to go.

"Let's just forget it."

"No! No…get back here. I'll…I'll make us something. You gotta eat right?" He starts moving around, half trying to stand, half clearing the table, mostly by pushing the contents of it onto the floor.

"Haymitch, don't…" I start. But he's muttering incoherently, and shuffling around the kitchen, and opening and closing cupboards. After several minutes he has two plates on the table with a can of tomatoes, half a crust of very stale bread and a tin containing an unknown substance that is grey and congealed.

"Voila," he says triumphantly and sits down, nearly missing his chair and catching himself at the last moment.

I'm wondering how on earth I'm going to get out of this when I hear a shuffling noise. I whirl to find Peeta standing behind me. But then Haymitch is bellowing and I turn back toward him.

"Peeta! So happy you could join us! Sit…both of you." He opens his arms wide. "We feast!" He starts scooping the contents of the tin out with his fingers and smearing it onto what I assume to be my plate.

I look back at Peeta. He looks better, his eyes are clear and blue, and he makes normal eye contact with me, but he hasn't spoken to me yet, a fact that leads me to believe that he isn't completely out of the woods.

"How are you?"

"I'm better…I feel really out of it. When I woke up I was so confused. What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Okay." He nods. "Did I sleep all day?"

"Pretty much."

"In your bed?"

Before I can answer, Haymitch emits a howl from behind me.

"Katniss! Whoo…you better go easy on the boy. Bed ridden all day after a night with you…"

I don't even realize what I'm doing until I'm across the room and have lunged across the table, spilling the pathetic dinner all over the floor, and clutching Haymitch by the front of his shirt.

"You don't get to do that anymore!" I spit through my teeth. "You aren't allowed make your cheap, little insinuations anymore. You got me through the Games, and I'll owe you forever, but I'm not going to let you walk all over us for the rest of our lives as if we are your own private little joke. What he's going through right now isn't funny."

Haymitch's hands are raised in surrender and we are almost nose to nose. I don't break his gaze even though the vapors of the liquor on his breath are enough to knock me out.

I feel hands on my back and then my shoulders, at first the touch is light, but then turns to gentle gripping as I am lifted to my feet and then moved away from Haymitch. I go willingly enough, though I don't stop staring at Haymitch, who has an odd look on his face.

"Let's just go Katniss…he won't remember anything you say anyway."

"I remember pretty clearly her giving up on you, Peeta, right after you were hijacked. Got real cozy with that cousin of hers…what was his name, Katniss?" Haymitch's eyes are burning into mine. And then I understand his odd look perfectly. If he can't use us as a joke then he'll use us as something to get his hooks into to destroy.

I lunge again but Peeta is ready for it. He picks me up as if I'm nothing but tinder and carries me out of there while I'm screaming obscenities at Haymitch. Who is laughing. I am completely on fire in my rage, thrashing wildly to get out of Peeta's hands, but he carries me all the way back to my house. By the time we get there I've burned myself out and turned into a pile of rags in his arms. I cry soundlessly, tears spilling from my eyes.

When we get inside the house he stands there holding me, literally like I am nothing more than an armful of wood.

"Where do you want to go?" His voice is empty.

I point to the stairs.

He carries me up the stairs and into my bedroom. He puts me down on my bed, and backs towards the door. The tears are still streaming from my eyes, but I can't speak or sob. It is as if my voice is gone, and the pain is just poring out of my eyes. I am so angry with Haymitch for saying what he said, mostly because it is true. I despise myself for it. My self-hatred beats a terrible rhythm inside my stomach and head like automatic gunfire. I want to get away so badly from everything, from everyone, but mostly from myself.

"I'm going to go."

I say nothing, just look at him and let the tears fall out of my eyes.

"Try to get some sleep, Katniss. It will be better tomorrow."

And then he's gone.

The tears don't stop. I lay there for hours gagging on sobs that won't come, telling myself that it would be wrong to burn down Haymitch's house while he is passed out drunk inside. Thinking that maybe it is my house that deserves to burn. But my brush with fire rules that out…I wouldn't have that pain consume my last moments on earth, no matter how loathsome I find myself.

At some point in the night I must sleep because I wake to the sun in the window and the sound of my front door opening.

"Ouch! Will you quit it! Are you awake, Katniss! Come down here, I've got someone…hey! Stop that! Who's missing you!" Peeta's voice fills the house.

I half roll, half fall out of bed, and walk to the top of the stairs. Peeta is standing at the bottom attempting to hold onto a very, very angry Buttercup. I descend the stairs slowly, feeling bruised and unsteady, but seeing Buttercup is such a relief. When I get to the bottom I reach out to touch him, but he strikes out, catching my palm with his claws. I feel the nails drag through my flesh but the pain is welcome. I turn my palm toward me, watching the blood well up and break through the surface of my skin. I haven't seen my own blood like this in a long time. I stand there staring at it.

Peeta finally gives up and let's Buttercup go, who turns and hisses before sulking around the corner and disappearing into the kitchen.

"Where did you find him?"

"Haymitch told me that he thought he saw him in the barn across from the factory a few days ago…turns out he was right."

My head snaps up so fast, it is as if it is not in my control. It is then that I notice that Peeta's face is bleeding, three thin lines, on his cheekbone near his eye. The cat must have gotten him too.

"You talked to Haymitch? This morning?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand," I say, feeling completely exasperated.

"Katniss, he feels terrible. He knows he went too far. You know how he is when he's drinking."

"No," I say. "Enough. I've had enough. I need to stay away from him until things are different. Until I'm better, or you're better, or hell freezes over and he stops drinking." I'm starting to hyperventilate. I suddenly need to sit down, and I do, hard on the step. I look down at the blood in my palm.

Peeta is kneeling in front of me and he's saying something about it being okay, that I don't have to see Haymitch if I don't want to, but I can't concentrate on any of his words. When I look at his face all I see is the blood.

I reach up slowly, and run my finger along the cuts on his face. I look at the blood on my finger for a few seconds before I rub it into the blood on my injured palm, mixing our blood together. For some reason this makes me feel immeasurably better and a strange calm starts to settle on me.

"We have to stop letting people hurt us," I say.

"And cats," he adds and I can hear the smirk in his voice, but I'm not ready.

"Peeta, I'm serious. We are a target. We always have been."

"It'll get better…" he starts.

"Like yesterday? Yesterday was not better, Peeta. It was a far, long cry from better."

"You are right."

We are quiet for a while.

"Tell you what," he says. "I'm going to go back outside. I'll knock on door. You'll answer it. We'll have a conversation about how it is so strange that we were both attacked by the same cat. And then we'll see where the day takes us."

"Are you serious?"

"As a fistful of nightlock."

I can't help but smile. I look at the blood staining my palm.

"Okay…I guess I'll play your games."

**Author's note: **Thanks to everyone who is reading, but especially to those of you who have written reviews. They make me write faster.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – Singing for Mother

"I think you are being very hard on yourself Katniss," mother says, her voice tinny over the phone line. "Think of how far you've come in just the past few months…after everything…and Prim."

I put my head in my hands and squeeze it against the phone. It kills me to hear the break in her voice as she says Prim's name. But she's struggling to be strong for me, and I have to try to return the favor.

"Maybe you're right."

"I am right. Greasy Sae tells me that you're hunting again, and that you and Peeta are working on a book. She says you look good, stronger. That your…scars are fading."

"Ha ha," I laugh sarcastically, "yeah, I won't be entering any beauty contests anytime soon. I've just gotten better at hiding my scars."

"We all have," she says, and she's silent.

We sit in silence for about a minute. We do this sometimes on the phone. It isn't awkward silence; it is more like we are just spending time with one another without being physically present.

"Can I ask you for something Katniss?"

"Sure," I say, not thinking anything about it.

"It is a little bit strange."

Now she has my attention.

"Okay," I say, feeling wary.

"Will you sing for me?"

"What?"

"It's just…I miss it. Your father…he used to sing. And you really do have such a lovely voice. I was thinking about it the other day and I thought that I would ask the next time we spoke. If it bothers you…"

"No. No, it is fine," I say. "You don't really ask for much these days." I'm silent for a few moments. "What is it you want me to sing?"

"Nothing in particular. Just something from home."

I think about it for a while before settling on an air that I know she was particularly fond of.

"Okay, I've got one. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

I begin to sing. I stumble over the words a few times here and there. Singing into the phone is a bit strange, but I try to sing as soft and clear as I can so that the sound comes through okay.

I hear the front door open and I know Peeta is there. I turn toward him and give him a signal to let him know that I'll be done in a minute. We are supposed to go into town to pick up a shipment from my mother. Peeta will be happy – his new paints have arrived.

I finish the song and wait for my mother to respond. She is quiet.

"Was that okay?" I ask. "Was it what you wanted?"

"Yes," she says, and I can hear water in her voice. "Is it okay if I ask you to do that every so often?"

"Sure. Singing is…well it brings up more happy than sad things for me now. Memories of dad. And Prim. And you, too. From when I was little."

"Good," she whispers. "I'm going to go now Katniss." Her voice is weak with emotion.

"Okay. Thanks for the stuff."

"Anytime I can get my hands on something that can help you, just call me."

She hangs up before saying goodbye. It is something that we do. It makes it easier somehow.

I look at the receiver in my hands for a few moments before returning it to its cradle.

"That was pretty," Peeta says.

I look at him but then quickly avert my eyes, suddenly feeling embarrassed and exposed.

"Thanks," I say, fumbling for something to change the subject.

"You're voice is even better now than it was when we were kids. It's fuller, more resonant."

I look at him, and I know what he's thinking about. He's thinking about a girl wearing a red dress and standing on a chair singing. I think about her too, and the emotions that go through me are so strong that I have to hold my breath for a moment to contain them. That was before. Before everything. That girls knew hardship and hunger, that is for sure, but she was so, so innocent. I ache for that phantom child self like I haven't ached for anything in a long time.

"Katniss?"

"Hmm?"

"Where did you go?"

"Oh," I let out a nervous chuckle, "someplace else," waving it away. No point in dwelling in the past.

"Are you ready to go?" I ask, deciding we need to move past this moment as soon as possible.

"I brought the wheelbarrow."

"How many paints did you order?"

"Don't ask," he says, sighing.

We walk to town in silence. About half way there Peeta asks,

"Do you think your children will inherit your voice?"

I'm genuinely shocked. I don't know what to say. I continue walking and stare at the ground, grappling for an answer.

"I mean, you obviously got yours from your father. It is probably pretty likely."

"Peeta, I'm never having children," I say, my voice gentle, but also clear and definite.

It is his turn to be quiet, and I assume he's thinking about what to say.

"You never told me that before," he says quietly, and then catches himself, "real?"

"Yes, real. I don't think it ever really came up."

"I'm surprised we didn't talk about it during the Quarter Quell…the pregnancy story…that must have been hard for you."

"Well, we couldn't really discuss it during the Quell. That would have given away your brilliant little game, wouldn't it?"

He looks uncomfortable.

"I can't believe I didn't know this about you," he says. He sounds sad, and despite all of the implications of his sadness that I don't really want to deal with, I feel guilty.

"We were children ourselves when our friendship started, Peeta. When would it have come up?"

"Did Gale know?"

This brings me to a stop. We stand a little bit apart in the lane and Peeta puts down the handles of the wheelbarrow.

"Yeah, I think so," I say, beginning to feel defensive.

"And he was okay with it?"

"It didn't really concern him, did it?" my voice turning to ice.

Peeta looks completely confused and he is silent for a few moments, looking around at the ground. By the time he looks up I am seething with anger. Something pulls him up short when he sees my face.

"Wait, Katniss, I'm sorry. I'd just assumed that…it just seemed that before the Games you two were going to end up together."

"And you had this figured out at the ripe old age of sixteen? That I was going to marry Gale and have a litter of his kids?" I am really angry now. "Who else assumed this back then? I know that it became a hot topic during the Games for certain people…but I'm just wondering how many people had plotted the course of my life before the Reaping."

"I don't know…" he begins, but I cut him off.

"Who says that you have to get married? And who says that you have to have kids?" I am yelling now. "It would be the height of selfishness and cruelty to bring a child into the world we live in Peeta!"

He is standing there looking at me. His shoulders are square and his composure is intact, but I can see that I've hurt him.

"The world is different now," he says quietly.

I decide to sidestep the very dangerous personal implications of what he has just said and shoot back at him indifferently,

"The world may have changed, but I haven't."

We stand there staring at one another. I don't have any idea what is going through Peeta's head. I am aware that I feel angry, but there is something else just beneath the surface that I can't quite uncover. I struggle with it, try to get my fingers around it to pry it open.

And then I realize what it is – the implications of this line of questioning. I've been sidestepping them, but there they are, beating their fists against the door of my heart.

What are Peeta and I ultimately going to be for each other? Once the healing is done, or at least once the pain is considered livable, will we be together again? Not just friends, not star-crossed lovers, but together in love?

My anger evaporates and my eyes are suddenly on the ground and my breath is speeding up. The strength of my ambivalence is frightening. On the one hand, I balk at the idea of it. Our love story was a fiction fabricated to keep us alive and then used as a weapon to try to destroy us. On the other hand, when I look ahead into the hazy future of my life, do I not see this man standing by my side for its entirety? Could I endure it without him? Can I expect him to do that without becoming closer, without sharing a home and bed, without love?

And then it hits me.

I would never wish for Peeta that he live a life without love! I want him to be loved and cherished. But I don't know if I am fit to do it. I know that I care for him more than anyone else in my life, but is that enough? Will it become more?

I begin to cry. And then I begin to sob. I wrap my arms around my waist and bend forward, heaving sob after sob down to the earth. This seems to go on for a long time, though it is probably less than a minute.

Peeta touches my arm.

"Hey," he says gently, "it is okay, Katniss. We don't have to talk about this."

But I am inconsolable. I am about to do down on the ground, when he catches me in his arms and pulls me to his chest. I lean all of my weight into him, giving myself over completely. He takes it.

This is the first true embrace we have had since returning to district twelve eight months ago. Its effect on me is devastating. It is like a seam has ripped open inside of me, and the entire contents of my soul are being poured out. At first I keep my arms wrapped around my waist, but soon I have reached around his neck and am clinging to him. I have forgotten about his strength and warmth.

I cry for a long time so we just stand in the lane holding one another. I don't know what, if anything is going on around us. It is possible that all of this has gone unseen by anyone else, since repopulation is still in the early stages, and not many people walk the lane between the Victor's Village and the town that is being rebuilt. If it's anyone, it would be Haymitch, but that wouldn't matter.

"You okay?" he asks after many minutes have passed. I nod my head, sniffling and wiping my eyes, all without letting go of him.

"Yeah. It's just…a lot. A lot of things that I'm just not really ready to deal with."

He pulls back away from me a bit, still holding me, and looks at my face.

"Katniss…how I'm feeling isn't really that different. It's good to know that we have each other to go through this with." For the first time I realize that his voice is shaking a little.

"Oh, that's good," I say, hiccupping a bit. "I thought I was the only one going through some kind of a mental breakdown."

He smiles a bit and shakes his head.

"Nope. You just beat me to it this time."

"Ha ha," I say quietly.

"Are you ready to go into town to get those paints?"

"Of course," I say. But I don't let go of him, and he doesn't let go of me either. We embrace again for a few moments before parting and continuing to walk down the lane.

We arrive in what will eventually be the center of town. There are a few houses, a government building that is also a school for the small population of children who have returned, a general store, a train station, and a post office. We head into the post office.

Peeta immediately strikes up a conversation with the woman behind the counter, and I stand next to him, vaguely marveling at his ability to talk to anyone, especially given the emotional scene we've just had. The thought of talking exhausts me, and I think about taking a nap.

"Well of course you two will be coming?" I hear the woman chirp.

"Ahhh, well I'm not sure about that," Peeta says.

"Oh you have to be there," she continues, "it is a celebration day! And it wouldn't really have been possible without you."

They are both silent for several beats, and it takes me a while to realize that is because she was talking to me.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask, trying to sound good-natured.

"Mary was just asking if we would be coming to the dance this weekend to celebrate the Day of Independence."

"What Day of Independence would that be?" I ask, still channeling Peeta's congenial tone.

"Why sweetie," Mary says, "that's the day you all beat the Capitol in the war and ended our oppression."

"Oh," I say, stiffening and losing my polite expression.

Peeta wraps things up quickly and pleasantly and somehow manages to carry out a huge box of paints while steering me out of the post office.

We are halfway down the lane when I ask.

"Are they having a party on the day my sister died?"

He is quiet for a moment before answering,

"Yep. Pretty much."

I imagine he's steeling himself for another breakdown of some kind, and really, who could blame him. My track record today has not been stellar.

Oddly, I am not angry. I try to be. I try to be ragingly indignant that they could turn a national tragedy, not to mention my own personal tragedy, into a holiday. But it doesn't come. All I can think, is this:

That Prim would love it if she knew that people were dancing on the day that she died. That she, in all of her old soul wisdom, would see it as proof of the goodness of people, that they would have the good sense to celebrate life after tragedy. And what better way to do that than dancing.

"I don't want to go into town for that," I say.

"Okay," Peeta says, and I can hear that he is waiting for the fall out.

"But I think I'd like to have a party at the house, just you and me. We can invite Haymitch…he's been better since he's been working on the book with us. And I want to dance."

I look over at him and he looking ahead as he is walking, a smile on his face.

"Sure, I think that would be nice."

"Yeah, I think…" and I pause, because my voice is threatening to be overtaken by my emotions again.

"Prim would love it," he finishes for me.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – Room to Move

I spend the day cleaning the house. These tasks that I normally find so tedious, actually seem pleasant to me today. I wash and open every window, beat out all the rugs, move and dust every piece of furniture.

I spend extra time in Prim and mother's rooms. In truth there isn't much in them. Even after I won the Games and we moved to Victor's Village, my family maintained their simple tastes and needs. Mother's closet has four dresses, two pairs of trouser-type pants, three shirts and two pairs of shoes. Prim's closet holds nearly the same count of items. Prim has some pictures in her room, mostly of me, which makes a hard lump form in my throat.

One of them is a small painting done by Peeta. I think that it must be from the Games, but I can't be certain since the clothing is not detailed and I'm somewhat obscured by brush and greenery. I'm standing on a rock aiming an arrow into a stream. The one detail that he made a point of capturing is the look on my face, particularly my eyes. My focus is impenetrable. It is almost like a presence unto itself in the picture.

Other than cleaning my mother and sister's rooms I leave them largely untouched. I know that I will have to deal with them some day, but I'm not ready yet.

I scrub and polish the kitchen until it shines, being careful to catch all the places that I know I may have spattered blood while cleaning game.

When I am finished I pull the kitchen table away from the wall and set it. One thing that my mother did purchase after the Games was a nice set of linens and simple porcelain china for the table. It was probably more money than she had ever spent in her life, and I know that she felt a bit guilty about it. But I also know that setting a nice table for us was something that she enjoyed.

I find some candles in the cupboard and put two of them on the table in the heavy silver candlesticks. I place some smaller candles around the kitchen, thinking they will be nice for later when the sun goes down.

My contribution for this evening's dinner has been simmering on the stove; rabbit stew with root vegetables and onions.

I go upstairs to wash up. I take a languorous bath, using some of the bath oils that were left in the cupboard. My skin still gives the impression of being patchwork, a section melted from the burns, another transplanted with an unnatural newness, and the rest regular old me. The muscles of my arms, legs and back have become developed again after my months of torpor. When it's all said and done I'm not in such bad shape. Physically, anyway.

I get out of the bath, dry off and braid my hair while it's still wet. I have very few things left from Cinna's wardrobe, which makes me sad. In truth none of them were made for my day-to-day life here. The clothes I wear every day are working clothes – clothes for hunting and labor. Cinna's clothes are for living a kind of life that I've never understood, but that does not detract from their beauty, or from how precious they have become to me.

I select the simplest dress from among them. It is white silk, shot through here and there with silver and gold thread. It has thin simple straps with a bodice that crisscrosses over my chest and gathers at my waist, the length falling just below my knees. I realize that I have no shoes to match so I decide to go barefoot.

I look in the mirror and heave a sigh. The lower neckline and sleeveless nature of the dress exposes many of my scars. I'd prefer that they were hidden, as much for Peeta and Haymitch's benefit as my own, but this is who I am now. We all live with reminders every day. They will deal with it just like I do.

I return downstairs just as Peeta is walking through the door. We stand there staring at one another mutely.

He is dressed in a pair of dark pants and a deep blue shirt, the top button undone. His eyes have turned an impossible shade of blue. He is holding two loaves of bread and a bunch of greens that are wrapped in paper. He is also holding a few flowers in a jelly jar. The water sloshes a bit.

"Uhhhh…sorry," he says sounding flustered. He looks back at the door over his shoulder. "I should have knocked."

"Don't be silly," I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but fighting a nervous feeling in my stomach. "You come in everyday without knocking and it's fine."

"Yeah but you aren't usually dressed."

"What?"

"I mean, dressed like that. Sorry," he says, smiling.

I grin widely, feeling ridiculous. I wave my hand in front of my face.

"It's fine. Let's just go in the kitchen."

I get ahead of him so that I am safe from his seeing my expression which I imagine is somewhere between mortified and happy in a slightly panic-stricken way. I may as well admit it to myself. I feel happy. Why that is so hard for me to accept I'm not entirely sure, but I imagine it has something to do with being afraid of when it stops. I visibly jump when he says,

"I brought these for you."

I whirl just a little too fast. He's holding out the flowers in the jelly jar and looking at me. He seems to have regained his composure, so what is wrong with me?

"Thank you Peeta," I say, forcing myself to reach out with steady hands. "They are very pretty."

"So are you," he says.

"Huh?"

"Very pretty," he's looking in my eyes when he says it.

I am blushing so brightly that I am sure that I may actually burst into flames. I am staring at him, at a complete loss for words, when I hear the front door burst open.

"Wow it is clean in here," Haymitch practically bellows, and I doubt I have ever been so happy to have him walk into my house.

I breeze by Peeta and fly down the hall toward Haymitch.

"Hello, sweetheart, you look beautiful," Haymitch says as he starts to hand me a bottle of what I assume to be some sort of liquor. This compliment has little affect on me compared to Peeta's, especially when I reach out to take the bottle and I can see that it is open with about a third of it empty.

"I got thirsty on the walk over," he says, smiling at me.

"Of course you did. That fifty yards is a real killer," I say, staring daggers at him.

"It is, it is," he says, smiling. "Come on, go easy on me Katniss. It's a holiday!"

I just look at him, annoyed, but not angry.

"Fine, come in. But don't vomit on my mother's tablecloth or I'll be forced to gut you."

"I accept your terms," he says, bowing slightly.

Suddenly the three of us are standing in the kitchen. Haymitch and Peeta exchange a greeting, and then we are left looking at one another. For the first few seconds I feel anxious, worried that this will lead to some kind of awkward, or worse, painful exchange. But it doesn't. The silence stretches on for a half a minute, at least, and all the while we just look at one another.

By the way that his eyes touch my face, neck and shoulders, I know that Haymitch is assessing the remnants of the damage of the fire. There is a look in his eyes that I can't place, some mix of regret and anger, and a word pops into my mind: protective. I don't know if I'm right or not, since trying to understand Haymitch's mind and motives, especially when he's been drinking, is next to impossible. I've surely misjudged him before.

Peeta is looking back and forth between us, a content look on his face. I know that we are his world now. He has no family, no friends other than any minor acquaintances that he may have made in his friendly way in town. Unlike Haymitch and I, who both could probably live in near solitary confinement, Peeta thrives on the company of others.

I imagine for a moment what I must look like to them. Of course I feel self conscious of my burns and scars. I feel exposed in Cinna's dress in a way that I'm not sure I have in any of the other things he's made for me. I realize that I have no idea at all how to do this. To sit down at dinner with these two men and celebrate the day that my world was broken and remade. The day that I lost the person who meant more to me than any other.

This is the exact moment when I would usually start crying. Not before the Games…before the Games I would have walked out on this scene and not given it a second thought. Since the Games however, these kinds of situations when I don't know how to respond emotionally, usually send me straight to tears.

But I don't.

Instead I marvel at them. At times my best friends, at others my greatest enemies, sometimes simultaneously. That we survived this at all, even as damaged as we all are, is nothing short of a miracle.

A peculiar and lovely calm settles over me.

"Peeta, why don't you and Haymitch prepare the greens and I'll bring the stew to the table," I say.

"Sounds good."

"Any particular kind of glass we should be using to drink this Haymitch?"

"Anything, as long as it is of the large variety."

"Why did I even have to ask," I say, arching an eyebrow at him but letting a small smile appear on my lips.

We eat our meal together, chatting amicably. Of course there are a few tense moments that happen. How could there not be between the three of us, and especially with the liquor? But we manage to get through without any major battles.

"How old are you now Katniss?" Haymitch asks.

"What kind of a question is that to ask a lady?" I ask, trying to mask the fact that I have to think about it.

"She's eighteen. She'll be nineteen in two months," Peeta says mildly.

I shoot him a look, my vision a little blurred by the liquor, but not too much so.

"How do you know that? Wait, what month is this?" I ask.

This makes both of them crack up laughing.

"No seriously, how do you know that?"

"We were in school together Katniss…you pick up on that stuff."

I look at him guiltily. He's smiling as if he's bursting to say something.

"And it is okay that you missed my birthday last month," he says, breaking into laughter.

Haymitch is in tears he's laughing so hard.

"What?" I am laughing a little bit too, but I'm trying to be indignant in my guilt. "Why didn't you tell me? How could you let your birthday go and not tell me?"

But he is laughing too hard to answer. After a few minutes we all calm down enough and he says,

"It doesn't matter…I didn't realize it until it had already passed. I had a string of bad days, and when I came out of it, it had come and gone."

This unfortunately, I do remember, and I just give him a reassuring smile and nod.

"Well to make up for it I say you get to take my birthday this year. We'll celebrate then."

"I'll make a cake."

"Now you're talkin," Haymitch chimes in. "I love the bread, Peeta, I really do. But I've been meaning to ask, when are you going to get back to sweets?"

"Yes," I say, "I think we should have more cake around here."

"Okay…I'll bake cakes," he says, his hands raised in surrender, but a pleased smile is on his face.

Later we have music, thanks to Prim. She was a great lover of music, and it was the one indulgence that she had after we'd moved here. She had collected a great range and variety. It was the one thing that I removed from her bedroom when I'd cleaned it earlier.

We bring the kitchen table into the living room so that we have room to move. I light the little candles in the kitchen and we dance for hours, first me and Haymitch, then me and Peeta. Even Peeta and Haymitch take a turn on the floor. Near the end it is all three of us awkwardly hanging onto one another in our exhaustion and drunkenness, laughing and twirling.

At some point Haymitch bows out, laying on the floor in the living room. The last thing he says to me before he goes to lie down is,

"This was a good day for Prim."

I kiss him on the cheek and nod, a knot of tears in my throat.

Now it is Peeta and I dancing alone in the kitchen. The time for complicated dance steps has passed; we are just holding one another turning in a slow circle.

"If we danced every day do you think we'd always feel like this?" I ask.

"Drunk?"

"No…better. Do you think we'd feel better?"

He's silent for a bit, the time it takes for us to turn a slow, full circle.

"I think doing things that make you happy gives you better odds of feeling better. But I don't think it always works or it is possible to force it. Sometimes I think that when things are really bad, there isn't anything that helps…except maybe time."

I know he's talking about himself, and as the night draws closer to its end, he's feeling anxious. I know that I am feeling worried, that this happy reverie will pass, and who knows what will be waiting to take its place tomorrow.

"But we know now that we can have days like this after everything that's happened. That means something, right?" I say, resting my head against him. I marvel at how completely normal this feels, holding Peeta, dancing with him. It is almost like we've erased some of the war, at least the time when we were separated. I know that it is folly to think this way, because he may be struggling in some way being this close to me. For all I know he is afraid at this moment.

But he holds me a little bit tighter, and I take it as a good sign.

"I wish Prim was here," I say quietly.

He stops dancing and just holds me to him.

"She would have loved this. The candles, the music, even Haymitch passed out on the floor. She would have been happy."

He stays silent and we stand still, holding onto one another for what seems like hours.

Suddenly, there is a knock on the door.

Peeta's whole body stiffens, as does mine. Everyone we know is here.

"What time is it," I whisper.

"After midnight."

It is almost scary, how quickly I feel the visage of "happy, young girl" drop from my shoulders, and be replaced by "cold, hard thing."

"Peeta," I say, my voice low and completely changed back into what it was…before. "Get Haymitch off of the floor and out of sight."

I stalk silently into the hall toward the door. I reach down for my bow, which is sitting beside the door. I knock an arrow into place, but keep it aimed at the floor. I wait until Peeta is standing beside me.

"Open it," I whisper. He reaches out and turns the handle, pulling the door open towards us. I step into the open, arrow half-raised.

I freeze.

It is Gale.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Adjoining Cells

**Authors Note: **_I'm sorry to interrupt at the beginning, but I just wanted to offer a word of warning on this chapter since I'm not sure that what happens here is entirely covered by the rating. I certainly don't get into any great detail, but there is a disturbing passage at the end of the chapter. I think anyone who has read the books can handle it._

_Since I am interrupting, and on a happier note, I'd like to thank everyone who is reading and especially those of you who have been kind enough to review. I'd like to thank WaffleNinja, in particular, for his/her astute comments and feedback. There are others that I will respond to individually when I have a moment, but I've been trying to write the story as fast as I can. Thanks again to all!_

* * *

The alcohol in my veins evaporates in the heat of my anger, as does all the pleasant warmth I'd been feeling, as I bring up the bow and point the arrow directly in Gale's face. He flinches and raises his hands slightly. The tense silence stretches on for several seconds.

"Come on Katniss, could you really shoot me in the face?"

"Why not? I shot a president in the face. Why not you?"

"Because I'm not your enemy."

"What makes you think I'm going to believe you?"

"Because it's me Katniss. How could I ever hurt you?"

I laugh hollowly, tilting my head in Peeta's direction.

"Yes, because the Capitol has never used a friend of mine against me before."

"It's not the Capitol any more…it doesn't even exist."

"I feel certain that this species is capable of cooking up a totalitarian regime in just about no time," I spit at him acerbically.

"I did not come here to hurt you Katniss. I came here with news that…well, I didn't want you hearing about on the television."

"Fortunately we don't seem to have access to programming anymore so we can't see any of your latest atrocities."

"Will you please just let me come in and talk to you? I promise I mean you no harm."

I stare into his eyes trying to uncover a trick, but he stares back at me with the same grey, even look he's always had. I try to think, but I am so angry that the thoughts are nothing but a snarling, snapping pack of dogs in my head. I need a way out of this, so I follow the only course open to me.

"Come back tomorrow," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument.

He makes one anyway.

"I'm scheduled to leave tomorrow morning at ten."

"Good, then come back tomorrow at nine-thirty and I'll let you tell me what you came here to say. Goodnight." I step back and look at Peeta, who reads my mind and closes the door.

I stare out the window for twenty minutes after Gale has left, watching, the arrow still loaded in my bow. Peeta sits in a chair and says nothing.

"Peeta, I want you to take Haymitch to your house and lock yourselves in."

"Katniss, you don't really think he's here to hurt you," Peeta says.

"I don't know anything Peeta," I say harshly looking at him, my insides shredded. "If I've learned anything over the past couple of years, it is that people are capable of anything. And I have no idea of what his motives might be."

"Don't you think that it would be smarter for the three of us to stick together, if he is a threat?

"Probably," I say, "but I need time to think.

"Fine," he says, standing. "You go upstairs and think. I'll be in the living room with Haymitch. We can talk about it in the morning before he gets here."

He turns and walks away down the hall before I can respond.

I know that he is right, that the three of us are safer together at this point, but I just want to be alone. I want to go into my room and scream at the walls and have no one around to hear me.

All I can think about is the last conversation I had with Gale just before I killed Coin, and the rage that explodes within me is a volcano. His possible culpability in Prim's death, his failure to kill me after I'd assassinated Coin, his total abandonment after my trial…there are no words for how betrayed I feel.

I spend the night pacing my bedroom angrily, alternating between watching out the window and screaming into my pillow. At dawn I change out of Cinna's dress and back into my regular clothes. I realize that this is something that I should have done last night, when I see that I snapped one of the straps on the dress during one of my fits. I add my anger and regret over the ruined dress to my list of grievances against Gale.

I walk down the stairs, with my bow over my shoulder and a handful of arrows, to find Haymitch and Peeta sitting at the kitchen table. None of us speaks. All of the light and happiness of the previous night has been stolen and replaced by bitterness and foreboding. Haymitch is sitting with his back straight against the back of his chair, hands on his knees, staring into the middle space in front of him. Peeta is sitting in a chair by the window, his eyes alternating between tracking my movement in the room and looking out the window. I pace back and forth. Time moves very slowly.

When the knock on the door comes it is early, eight o'clock. Peeta and Haymitch both stand. I look at them, and the three of us walk to the door. I have my weapons in my hands, but nothing is loaded. I peek out of the side window quickly to make sure he is alone, before I nod and open the front door. Gale is confronted by the three of us, me in the center, flanked by Peeta and Haymitch.

"Oh," he says, clearly a bit surprised. "I thought you'd be alone."

I say nothing.

"Gale…you don't call, you don't write…you pick a strange day for a visit," Haymitch says, his tone light but with a threat just beneath the surface, "you don't really think that I, as Katniss's mentor, would allow her to meet you without backup."

By the time Haymitch is finished speaking I am shaking, my rage at Gale threatening to boil over.

And Gale can see it. He visibly flinches when he looks in my eyes, betraying himself for one moment, and I can see that I've hurt him. It is only for a second, and then his armor comes crashing down, his face becoming a mask.

"You are right, Haymitch," he says, his voice steady. "I got on the first hovercraft I could requisition to get to you with some bad news."

He stops for a moment, as if considering how he should continue.

"It is regarding Johanna Mason. She died two days ago. Officially it is being reported as an accident, but it was in fact a latent reaction to her torture."

Whatever I was expecting him to say this is not it.

I feel a gasp leave my lips, and I think that it may have been the word no, but I'm not sure. Johanna and I were not friends, but we were close. I look over my shoulder at Peeta. He is looking at the ground, but his face is also a mask. Haymitch lets out a sign behind me. I feel like I can't breath.

"I knew, given your history, that this would not be the kind of thing that you'd want to hear on television," Gale says, his voice quiet. "It seems that during her torture she was being drugged with something, the long-term effects of which cause organ failure."

My heart seizes and my eyes snap open wide looking at Gale.

He knows what I am asking.

"It wasn't venom," he says, his voice even. "The effects started showing up several months ago. Peeta?"

"Yes."

"Have you been coughing up blood or having nosebleeds?"

"No," Peeta says.

"Any unexplained pain in your stomach or back?"

"No."

"Is there a test of some kind?" I interrupt, my voice sounding a bit hysterical, and it feels like something inside of my chest is turning to ice. "Can you take some blood and test it…or is there a treatment? Can he just start treatments?"

Gale is shaking his head.

"The symptoms are the test and there is no cure."

The ice is spreading from my chest, up into my throat and down into my stomach. I cannot move.

"So, Peeta, no unusual bleeding of any kind. No pain, no dizziness," Gale continues.

I'm standing, feeling frozen to the ground, but when I don't hear a response from Peeta I whirl to face him. He is staring at the ground.

"Peeta!" I cry, "Have you had any of the symptoms?"

He is just shaking his head staring at the ground. He doesn't look scared or worried, but I can see something in his eyes.

"Well," Gale says, sounding relieved, "that is one good thing, then."

I'm still looking at Peeta, trying to figure out what's going on in his head, but he's closed himself off. I shoot Haymitch a quick glance before turning back toward Gale.

My anger, though still present, has lost its heat in my sadness for Johanna, and my terror for Peeta. A look passes between Gale and I.

"I'm going to walk Gale into town," I say. Neither person behind me responds.

"Goodbye Gale," I hear Haymitch say, but his voice is low, almost a whisper. Peeta is a stone in his silence behind me, and I feel the weight of fear in my chest. I am afraid for him that his suffering may not be over, that death could still claim him. However unlikely it may be, if I'm to trust Gale's reckoning of the situation, it is now a terrible seed that has been planted in our heads.

I hear Gale say something to Peeta and Haymitch as we walk away, but I can't make out the words, my mind is in such disorder.

We walk most of the way into town in silence.

"I know that I've burdened you with this. But I couldn't know what I did about Johanna and not let you know…not warn you," he says, his voice straining. "I really think he's fine, Katniss. He would be showing symptoms by now. I think they had a very specific purpose for what they did to him…with Johanna it was different…it was just torture."

By the end of this speech he is miserable. I know that I should try to find it in my heart to comfort him, but I can't. I just nod.

We are almost to the hover pad before he speaks again.

"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" he asks.

I don't look at him. I can only think of poor Johanna, and of my fear for Peeta.

He grabs my arm and turns me toward him, but I still have no words.

"Katniss, I didn't come here for this…my life…well, it's moved on. I had to make choices after what happened with Coin…you have to know that I did everything that I could to defend you during the trial, but in order to survive the aftermath of that, I had to distance myself from you." He's looking at me hard in the eyes, willing me to understand, and I do. Perfectly.

"So," I say more calmly than I would have thought possible, "apparently I am not the only one who makes choices to better my chances of survival."

"What?"

"You once said that I would choose whichever one, you or Peeta, I couldn't survive without."

He's looking at me, understanding dawning.

"I guess we're cut from the same goods, Gale, because based on what you just said, you chose your own survival over being there for me."

He says nothing, his grey eyes are empty.

"Go home Gale…to wherever your home is now. I'm grateful for the information that you brought and maybe I'll forgive you eventually, but I don't want to see you again."

I turn and walk away without looking back.

When I get back to my house it is empty. I go to Peeta's and Haymitch greets me at the door.

"Where is he?" I ask.

"Upstairs getting changed."

"What do you think?"

Haymitch looks at me for a long time before he blows his breath out between pursed lips.

"I think that as long as Peeta's telling the truth he's probably fine."

"Yeah, that's the read I got from Gale. But there was something in Peeta's eyes…I don't know. I don't think he was lying, but there was something."

"It is guilt Katniss. Survivor's guilt," Haymitch says. "You of all people must know that feeling."

I look at him and nod. I think of my nightmares, the nightly visits from the dead. It sometimes feels like a parade of the dead, there are so many of them, so many people who didn't survive when I did.

For some reason, when I think of Peeta's pain it is all tied up with what the Capitol did to him, and I forget to remember that he is a survivor as well. As is Haymitch. I look at him. He's nodding at me too.

"I'm going to go up to see him," I say.

"Good. I'm going home to start drinking. Come get me if you need anything." He pats me on the cheek and walks out the door.

I walk up the stairs and knock on Peeta's door. He doesn't answer, so I go in.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed, a vacant expression on his face, still wearing the clothes from the night before. I walk over to the desk and grab the chair. I put it directly in front of him and sit.

"Peeta," I say gently. "I have to ask you, because I don't sleep at night as it is, and I definitely won't sleep if I don't ask. Did you tell Gale the truth about the symptoms?"

He looks up at me. In his eyes I see nothing but blind pain.

"Yes."

"Okay. Good. I don't think we need to worry about that then…"

"What?" he snaps. "You think I'm worried about me?"

I say nothing.

"What about Johanna?"

I still say nothing. He is quiet for several minutes and I can see something building in him. Finally, when he speaks, it comes out as a whisper.

"Our cells were right next to one another, and we could talk to one another through the air duct. In the beginning, we'd play this game. It was when we were first captured, before things got really bad. One of us would tell a story, nothing long, just something interesting, and then the other person would have to guess whether the story was made up or if it was something that had really happened."

"Like real or not real," I say gently.

"Yeah, but we'd try to trick one another…we'd try to make an unbelievable story just believable enough that it could be true. At first, before they really started working on us, the stories were fun, almost whimsical. An escape from reality. But after they started the…torture…really scary stuff started to come out. The stories Johanna told about her family…I couldn't believe they could be true. But they were. They burned her family alive right in front of her Katniss."

I suck in a breath. Bright flashes of light pierce my vision.

"I know that one is true, because they must have been listening to us, and the next day they went after her for hours, trying to make her deny that story. But she wouldn't…she kept screaming over and over that it was true, that she had seen…that she had seen…their hands…they were holding hands in the fire…"

He's shaking; his voice is nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

"Stop," I say, the room beginning to whirl around me. I place the palms of my hands on either side of my head. I force myself to breathe. "We need to stop."

"It never stops," he says.

I try to think. At first it is impossible, because all that I can see in my head is my sister on fire. But I try to work around it, look for something else. Something to move us past the nightmare. I feel like I'm paddling water, just barely able to keep my nose above the water. When suddenly it hits me.

"Peeta…we need to go swimming!" I've grabbed his hands and I'm pulling him out of the room. "Yes…we need to get away to the lake. I'll teach you to swim."

I know that I've gone a little mad, but for some reason, I feel like this is the exact thing that needs to be done.

He lets me lead him out of the house. We don't even close the front door behind us. We are running for the woods.

* * *

**2nd Author's Note: **_I had to go back in an fix the misspelling of Johanna's name...it's been bugging me for days, and it's the least I could do for such a great character. _


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven – Favorites

"What was your favorite part of the Games?" he asks.

"Peeta!" I cry. "What kind of a question is that? Nothing, nothing was my favorite…you'd be better off asking me what part I hated the most."

"I don't have to ask that I already know," he says, his voice lowered.

_Rue._

Neither of us says her name because we don't have to.

"I'm not asking the question to be a sadist…I know it was awful. I was there too."

We are lying on the floor in the broken down cabin out in the woods by the lake. I haven't returned to my house all summer except once to get supplies, and to leave a window cracked at the back of the house for Buttercup to come and go as he pleases. Peeta returns every couple of days to make us bread. He doesn't say anything, but I know he also does it to check on Haymitch.

The cabin has been transformed. Peeta painted the inside of it, not with a mural, but with a deep shade of blue, shot through here and there with gold stars. We've made beds from pine stuffed under sheets. They lay side by side separated by about two feet. We have piled quilts and blankets on top of them for warmth. At night we light candles and we have a small cooking fire and a few utensils for eating. We swim nearly every day, the exceptions being the days when my hunting takes a lot of time and the watching days. I tried once to take him into the water on a watching day, to see if it would help him snap out of it, but he began shaking and moaning in such a terrible way that it scared me and I pulled him out.

"It was the lamb stew and rice in the cave." I say after a while. "The whole idea of the Games was completely sick, but if I'm honest with myself that was actually nice. I felt safe, and warm and satisfied, which…you know…when you're hungry is the best feeling in the world."

"Yeah, that was my favorite part too," is all that he says.

A little time passes because I am afraid to ask.

"What was the part that you hated the most?"

"Making the pact with the Careers," he says without hesitation. "I knew that they would kill me, and I was terrified that it would happen before I could get to you, to help you."

I look at him for a solid minute, incredulous and unable to breathe.

"You were more worried about helping me before they killed you then you were about them actually killing you."

He smiles sheepishly, and a sad look crosses his face.

"I know you hate this Katniss…I know it makes you feel bad. But I never expected to survive those Games. I did however expect to do everything in my power to make sure that you did."

"Peeta…why?"

"You know why," his voice is definitive; it holds no accusation or expectation. He is simply stating a fact. Because I do know.

I shift around in my bed, feeling my face burn and staring at one of the gold stars on the wall.

"What about the Quell?" I ask, taking my chances that any change of subject is for the best.

"You first. What was your worst?"

"Ugh…that's easy. When you died," I say, remembering my panic and loss of control. "You see, I had it figured that I was going to keep you alive during the Quell, and that I'd failed so miserably and so quickly…thank goodness for Finnick, that's all I can say."

"My worst was probably when we were separated at the end and all hell broke loose," he says. "I could not figure out what was going on. I obviously knew something was up, but in those last few minutes, I thought for sure that it was the Gamemakers' plan all along to take you out, and that you were being surrounded and taken like we were…to be executed." He's quiet.

"I also wasn't a fan of the jabberjay section of that clock…when you were trapped behind that force field or whatever it was. I have never seen you look broken…you have so much fire in you. But the look on your face was awful. I remember thinking that you'd have a hard time coming back from that."

"Yeah," my voice shaky. "If you hadn't been on the other side I don't know what I would have done. I think there would have been a lot of wandering around screaming."

More time passes. Neither of us seems to want to speak. Finally Peeta breaks the silence.

"What was your favorite?"

I start to sweat a little.

"You first," I say, trying to sidestep.

"No way, I asked first."

I bide my time. I try to think of something else, anything but the truth, but honestly the Quell was so miserable that there are very slim pickings with regard to happy moments. I consider the shellfish dinner, but one look into Peeta's eyes and I know he will catch the lie. I turn onto my back, avoiding his gaze, which is as open and unwavering as always.

"The kisses on the beach," I whisper. I can't say anything else; I'm so embarrassed and conflicted.

Our lives since returning to twelve have held no romance whatsoever. We are closer than we've ever been, especially since moving out to the lake, and on the really terrible nights, when my nightmares send me into thrashing and screaming, Peeta has begun to get into my bed to comfort me, just like before. The first night it happened I'd stiffened, almost asked him to go because it actually made me feel more afraid and exposed. But I'd waited, holding my breath, until I could feel his heart beat in his chest on my back. Its rhythm was slow and steady, and it made me feel braver, that he could be this person again and that I could let him.

We don't sleep together every night, because sometimes it has the unfortunate effect of bringing on a watching day. It makes me very sad that by giving comfort to me it seems as though he is robbing himself of some strength. When we've talked about it he says that he doesn't even remember waking up next to me, that he loses time between waking and starting to come out of it. One time he scared me terribly, as he wandered into the woods in nothing but his underclothes and no shoes. Despite it being summer the nights can be cold, and you can see your breath in the mornings. I found him about a mile from the lake, standing in the woods, scratched and bleeding from thorn bushes, and freezing. It had taken me two hours to coax him back to camp.

But on the mornings when he doesn't wake up trapped in his own mind, we lay in bed for an hour or two, our bodies still entwined, talking, and I've begun to detect something beneath the surface of this habit. And it is not something that I am sensing from him. It is me.

I have also begun to hate the moment when we rise for the day, and we leave the quiet reverie of those mornings. And it makes me feel vulnerable and afraid of what it might mean.

So once I've said the words about the kissing on the beach I lay there staring up at the ceiling, which is also painted blue with stars, and my heart beats faster in my chest and I feel completely exposed.

He sighs.

"That is my favorite too."

I don't know if this makes me feel better or worse. It certainly brings up all of those confusing implications about the future that I can't seem to wrap my brain around.

"But kissing Finnick Odair while he was saving my life is a close second," he says, barely containing the laugh I hear waiting. And I turn toward him and crack up, feeling so grateful for his sense of humor and willingness to let this topic go for the time being.

We laugh for several minutes before finally regaining our composure.

"It is starting to get colder," he says, his tone thoughtful.

"Yes, fall is coming. We will have to go back." I feel colder when I say it, sensing that a loss is about to happen.

"I'll miss swimming," he says. Peeta has turned out to be a fabulous swimmer, despite his artificial leg.

"What if we moved in together," he says. His tone is so casual that I almost miss the weight of what he says. At first I feel very panicked. But I've learned to wait these moments out. I start to try to imagine it…Peeta living in my house. But then I realize that is kind of presumptuous and the words are out of my mouth before I realize it.

"Would we move into my house or yours?" I ask.

"Whatever you want…they are identical so I don't think it matters. You decide."

I make a calculated move, wanting to maintain some boundaries.

"Will you paint my room in your house to look like this?" I sweep my arm across the room, indicating the ceiling and walls.

He answers without skipping a beat.

"Of course, whatever you want."

"Can we have cake for breakfast?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm in," I say, and I'm reeling from my impulsiveness. My heart is racing. Is this really happening?

He doesn't say anything for a while.

"You aren't afraid…of living with me?"

He question catches me off guard, but I suppose that on some level I've been waiting for a similar question, especially given our living arrangements all summer.

"I admit that there were times at the beginning of the summer when I got a little scared sometimes. You'd look at me and your eyes were either empty or filled with such rage that I felt sure that you were either going to fall into a coma or something at my feet, or lunge for my neck. Sometimes you seem so angry all day, and you just swim laps for hours at a time, and other days you seem so sad that I get scared that you've given up hope or something. And of course there's the watching days, which are really the most disturbing, when you don't even seem to be present at all in your body. But we've gotten through it."

He nods at me.

"And there'll be a lock on my bedroom door. Plus I'm armed," I say, smirking at him.

He lets out a laugh, before turning serious.

"But what if you need me in the night?"

"We'll work out a signal or something," I say. "Oh…and we'll have to keep Buttercup."

"Of course."

"When should we go back," I ask, surprised that I am suddenly anxious to do this. Part of it is that I'm afraid I'm going to change my mind, and part of it is that I really want to give it a try.

"Maybe a week?"

"Sounds good," I say.

"I'd like to get Haymitch out here once, just so he can see what it's like."

I nod, but I'm distracted. I'm thinking about Prim and mother's things. I'm not sure what I will do with them. I guess I'll figure that out when we get back.

For the first few days of the week he spends a great deal of time back in twelve, which is a mixed bag of the pleasure of being alone and loneliness. On the fourth day he brings Haymitch, who is clearly a mess, thinner, and a bit yellow. When I see him I feel bad about abandoning him for the summer, but then we all need to figure out a way to survive, and this summer retreat was exactly what I needed. And Peeta too.

The last three days are ours, and we spend it swimming in the lake, the temperature of which is rapidly dropping. We start to pack up the camp, waiting until the last morning to wash all the blankets and linens in the lake, and packing up the cooking utensils and clothing. On our last night we sleep with our beds pressed together so that we can look out of the window into the forest. The real stars peak in through the trees, winking tirelessly.

"I will really miss this," I say.

"We can come back next summer."

"That will be nice."

"It will be a bit harder, since I'm thinking about starting a bakery."

"Really," I say, turning toward him. "Peeta, that is kind of exciting. Is there space in town?"

"I think eventually I'll be able to get a small building. To start I'm going to bake at home and sell my stuff at the general store. Less pressure."

I appreciate his words completely. Pressure and trauma victims don't mix well, so this plan is very smart.

"That sounds nice."

"Any thoughts on what you are going to do?" he asks.

"Well your idea is a pretty good one…maybe I'll try selling game. Keeping us and Haymitch in fresh meat has never been a problem. We always have extra. It seems I'm one of the few hunters in the area, so odds are we won't run out."

"We should also try to help Haymitch manage his geese. The flock is getting a bit out of control, and I think a lot of eggs are going to waste," he says thoughtfully.

We are quiet for a while. I start to think he has fallen asleep when he asks,

"What if things get hard again when we get back?"

I reach out and take his hand. I interlace my fingers with his, something I haven't done since the Quell.

"I've got your back if you've got mine."

"Always," he murmurs sleepily, and I feel a pang in my heart that is so strong that I feel tears fill my eyes.

"Go to sleep…a lot of heavy lifting tomorrow," I whisper.

"Goodnight," he breathes.

"Goodnight."

Our fingers stay interlaced. I stare at his face. It is very dark in the room, but the little bit of starlight that comes through the window gently illuminates his face. I want to reach out and trace the lines on his face, the burn scars, the scars from the Quell, but I'm not ready for that level of intimacy. Part of me wonders if I'll ever be. But another part, a part that is bigger feels a strange certainty that we are on the right path, that I've made a good decision.

I return to a memory right before I fall asleep. We are in district eleven, and Peeta has just promised food to the families of Thresh and Rue. The thought that enters my mind is so clear it is like a bell ringing.

How could I do better?


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight – Wakeup Call

I'm sitting in the kitchen, staring out of the window. A thick blanket of snow covers the ground outside and the trees are covered with ice. The weak light of the morning sun is glinting off of a particular branch, and I've been fixated on it for the better part of an hour. My hands rest on the table, beneath my palms is the latest shipment of parchment as well as a few other things I've requested from Dr. Aurelius. In truth we have little use for the paper…our entries have been few and far between for many months now, since much of our collective histories, mine, Peeta's and Haymitch's, have been documented. The book is nearly five inches thick, and while I know it will never be completely finished, the bulk of the work we needed to do has been done. I think that the new pages should be used for a new book, possibly something recording Peeta's bread and cake recipes.

There are a few print books that I requested, and the fact that he sent them is a testament to Dr. Aurelius's generosity. While new books are always being created, these books are old, something saved from before the disasters that led to the founding of Panem and the Capitol. I haven't had the chance to look at any of them, and right now I'm thinking it will be a long time before I get the chance to read any of them.

I'm thinking about something that happened last night.

We were looking at some of the pictures in the book. It had been a quiet sort of day. I'd had a really good day hunting the day before and Peeta had finished the baking early in the morning. Everything in the house was clean and in order. Other than making the requisite meals and cleaning up after them, we just didn't have much to do. Neither of us is particularly good at sitting still, but the weather had taken a cold and nasty turn, so we were housebound. At some point during looking at the book, late in the evening, I fell asleep. When I woke up I found myself still on the couch and wrapped up in Peeta's arms. I could tell he was awake, because he was stroking my hair.

When I looked up at him, I meant to say I was sorry for nodding off, but instead I ended up locking eyes with him. The look he gave me was different from anything I'd seen in his eyes since before we were taken from the Quell. It held a deep undercurrent of heat. I was immediately on guard, but before I could stop him, his lips were pressed to mine. I thought of resisting, but after several seconds passed, I realized that I didn't want to stop him. The warm press of his lips, the familiar scent of his breath, the feel of his hand as it rose to gently cradle the back of my head, his thumb on my cheek…I felt like I was falling backwards, through all of our past kisses. But instead of experiencing the pain and loss of the past, of what the circumstances where that wrought those kisses, it was as if I was tumbling back to the beginning and that this was our first kiss. Alone, unwatched, unaccounted for by anyone but us. The kiss only lasted for a little more than a minute, but when we finally broke it, I was breathless and my cheeks felt hot. I pulled away, sitting up.

"Katniss," he said.

But I felt spooked. I didn't respond, nor did I look at him.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes…just need a little time."

"Sure," he said gently, and though I knew he was sincere, I detected a slight note of disappointment.

After a few minutes, I made my excuses. I was tired; I needed to get up early to hunt. I went to my room and closed the door behind me. I lay in bed for hours, afraid to fall asleep. Afraid that if the nightmares came he'd come to my bed to comfort me. And if that happened, he might kiss me again. And I didn't know how I felt about it.

Of course it felt wonderful, but alone in the dark I began to worry about all of the emotional implications. With this thought came an unexpected flood of anger at myself and the question that followed was like a slap in the face. What was I waiting for?

This morning I descended to an empty house. A note on the table explained that he'd gone to town to get some sugar for a cake and that he'd be back by ten. I've been sitting at the table ever since but then I decide to call my mother. After fifteen minutes on the phone with her, I know I have made a mistake. I've been neglecting to tell her that Peeta and I have been living together, and she's less than happy to hear the news, though what business it is of her's, I couldn't say.

"I just can't believe that you've been living together all of this time and haven't told me." Her tone of voice is calm and steady, but I can tell that there is an undercurrent of irritation.

"It's hasn't been that long," I say, lying, since including the summer at the lake we've been sharing a home for nearly six months.

She is quiet for a while, and I take the time to remind myself to be patient with her. I am the only child she has to worry about anymore.

"I know you're not going to like what I have to say," mother says, and I stifle a sigh. "I know it's absurd after everything you've been through, but somehow...I feel like it makes what I'm about to say even more important."

I wait silently.

"You've had no chance for normalcy, I mean you've been operating as an adult since you were eleven!"

"Will you please just say it, mother," I say, exasperated, my quest for patience waning.

"Have you asked Peeta what he wants?"

Her question catches me off guard, and I'm not sure exactly what she means.

"He was the one who asked me to do this, if that is what your are asking."

"I don't doubt that is true Katniss. But does sharing this house mean the same thing to the both of you?"

The feeling of guilt slams into me like a fist to the gut, and even though I know exactly where she's going with this I feign ignorance.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

She sighs, and I get the feeling that she doesn't want to continue, but she does.

"When your father and I moved in together it was because we were in love and we wanted to be married and start a family. I'm not saying that everyone has to do it that way...but I do think that to be fair to Peeta you should at least ask him what he wants...otherwise you may both be limiting choices and opportunities for the other, even if it is years from now."

I'm silent.

I feel very angry and defensive, and sadness knots painfully in my throat, like a little snarl of razor wire. It is not that she is right, but it's not like she's wrong either, and the events of last night certainly underscore her point. I can't expect her to know what is going on with Peeta and I, how different things are between us, and how my feelings have evolved. But will they ever evolve into the kind of scenario she's describing? A marriage and family! I feel myself recoil, especially from the thought of children.

But I feel like I know what Peeta's answer would be if I were to ask, and the guilt overwhelms me.

"I have to go," I mumble.

"All right. I'll call next week."

I hang up.

I decide that I need some time alone, and since Peeta may be home any minute, I grab my bow and head for the woods. I don't even feel like hunting, but I need some time to think.

I don't return to the house until it is very late, close to sunset, and my feet are freezing from trekking through snow all day. The house is empty, which is odd, since Peeta's note said he'd be back at ten, and it is now close to six. I wait around for close to an hour, before I walk down the road, past my old house and up to Haymitch's. His house is deserted as well. This is even more odd. Normally by this hour Haymitch is so wasted that he can't stand, let alone be out and about from his house.

I wait. And wait.

Finally I can stand it no longer so I make the trek into town. As I walk the uneasy feeling that has crept into my stomach begins to turn to fear.

What could have happened to the two of them?

I begin to run down the lane, slipping several times on the ice.

When I get into town I am thwarted, because the small town square is deserted and everywhere is closed. I walk up to the general store and peer in but it is empty. I pound on the door anyway.

"Katniss." It is Haymitch. He sounds strange. He's walking up to me from the road, looking me steadily in the eyes. One look in his eyes and I feel panic fill my veins like ice.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask, my voice breaking on his name. Haymitch is reaching out his hands to me.

"He's over at Doc Lou's...he's...something's happened."

My breath catches on my sob and I sprint past Haymitch, straight into the door of Doc Lou's house.

"Peeta?" I scream. "Peeta where are you?"

No answer.

After a few seconds Doc Lou comes into the hall from a door. She starts to say something to me, but I don't hear her, I'm pushing past her, forcing my way into the room.

Peeta is lying on a bed, unconscious. His face is pale, and his breathing seems shallow.

I'm frozen where I stand. This isn't happening. He was fine last night, and well enough to come to town this morning. It seems like the sounds in the room are crystallizing into nothing but a single, insect-like hum, and the light is so bright that I can barely see. I reach out, try to find something to grab onto, but I stumble. Haymitch catches me. Doc Lou is saying something to me. I'm staring at her lips but I can't understand the words. I feel sweat dripping down my back, and it feels like my ears have been stuffed with cotton. I put my hands up to my head and squeeze, trying to get control of my senses, but I can barely breathe, the breaths coming in tight gasps. My vision is beginning to close in, and it seems like I'm staring down a tunnel.

After what seems like a very long time I realize that I've been put in a chair, and the doctor's injected some kind of medicine in me. It takes me several beats to realize that it must be a sedative of some kind, because my breathing is back to normal and the tunnel vision has subsided.

"What's happened to him?" I ask weakly.

"We don't know," Doc Lou says. "He went down unconscious in the store this morning. At first it looked like he may have gone into some kind of shock, and his blood pressure dropped pretty low. I can't seem to find anything major wrong with him, except that I can't wake him. I've put in a requisition for a scanner, but it's going to be a few days. The longer he's out though…and given his history…well, I just don't know."

"No." The word leaves my lips soundlessly. The torture…is this the same thing that happened to Johanna? I want to scream, I want to pound my fists on the floor, the walls…even Doc Lou and Haymitch. I want to beat everything to dust. But I can barely move, the sedative is too strong. Instead I drag myself to my feet and stumble to his bedside. I take his hand.

"Please don't leave me," I cry, tears falling from my eyes in heavy drops. "I need you to stay here. I can't do this without you." I don't know if this is okay or not, but I go around to the other side of the bed and climb into it, being careful not to put any weight on his chest, since his breathing seems so shallow. Instead I rest my head on his arm and hold his hand.

Haymitch sits in the chair I've abandoned, and the doctor leaves the room.

"Is this it Haymitch?" I whisper. "Is this how this whole thing ends?" I feel broken, shattered into a thousand pieces of ice.

He's quiet for a very long time.

"I don't know sweetheart," and for once his sarcastic term of endearment sounds sincere. "Doc Lou is looking into some things. She isn't giving up. So I don't think you should either."

I'm shaking my head.

"What have I been waiting for? What is wrong with me Haymitch…have I been so blind that I couldn't see what I could have had with him until now…when it's too late?" The words come out of my mouth, completely uninhibited, and I realize with vague regret that the sedative is making me talk too much.

Haymitch is looking at me with a steady gaze, but suddenly he drops his eyes and looks away.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," he says. "This thing with the two of you…it was tainted from the beginning Katniss. Maybe it seems to you right now like it was a no brainer, but as someone who has been there since the beginning, I'm here to tell you that I was never completely sure that it would work out. That there is love there, that's never been in question, especially on his part. But you know you've gone your rounds with doubt, doubting yourself, doubting him…especially after everything that happened in the war. And I, for one, don't blame you.

"I don't know if you'll find this comforting, but I've noticed a few similarities between you and I over the years. One thing I know we have in common is a reluctance to go all in when it comes to relationships…and I don't think being in the Games had anything to do with it, though I doubt that the world we live in helps."

He gestures gently toward Peeta.

"The thing about him…he's braver than either of us because he's willing to risk it."

And then he's silent.

Despite the haze of the sedative, I'm floored by everything that Haymitch has just said, not just because he seems dead sober, but also because it is all true, and the fact that he's been paying such close attention touches me in a way that I can't explain.

"I think that the important thing to focus on right now is how to get him through this," Haymitch says reasonably.

"But Gale said there is no cure…" I choke, but Haymitch interrupts.

"We don't even know what this is. It is true, it could be something from the torture, or it could be something else."

"Come on Haymitch," I snap, though the words feel slow in my mouth and I can't really lift my head, "do you really think this is something else?"

"Why would we assume that it isn't? Because that is the worst-case scenario and that is where your mind always goes? Now stop and think…he hasn't had any symptoms before today that I know of…you?"

I think hard. I can't think of a single thing that would indicate that Peeta has been anything other than healthy. He's never seemed sick or weak…in fact he just helped haul bags of grain off of a shipment train two days ago. I say as much to Haymitch.

"So no nosebleeds, no weakness or pain at all and then today he drops unconscious," he says thoughtfully.

I look at him hopefully.

"Maybe he did something while he was hauling the grain, bruised something inside…I'm going to go tell that to the doctor. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He's left the room.

I struggle to lift my head and drag my body up higher on the bed so that I can whisper in his ear.

"You are not allowed to leave. I will do anything you ask…I just need you to wake up." I say these words directly into his ear, and though I whisper my tone is forceful. I place a kiss on his lips and then pull back to look at him. He is still unconscious. I didn't really expect a fairy tale awakening, but after all we've been through I do feel a little bit disappointed. I put my head back down on his arm and fall asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 – Reckless

What happens to me over the next few days is that I forget how to live.

I never leave his bedside. I don't eat. When Doc Lou sets up a fluid drip for him on the second day because he's developed a fever and is starting to become dehydrated she threatens to do the same thing to me if I don't at least drink a glass of water. When I sleep it is fitful and more often than not I wake up screaming. It breaks my heart that the sound doesn't wake him.

I sing songs to him, tell him stories, I make up things...different endings to our Hunger Games...stories where we go home, where there is no war, where we are left in peace.

On the third day the scanner arrives.

Doc Lou tries to make me leave during the scan, and I flatly refuse. What if he wakes up when I'm not there? In the end Haymitch coaxes me out and sits by the door with me, holding my hand. He gets me to eat a piece of Peeta's bread, but it tastes like ashes on my tongue.

Doc Lou emerges, but she breezes past us without a word. I lunge after her, demanding an explanation, but just as quickly she's coming back down the hall towards us holding a syringe and a vial of medicine.

"What is happening?" I yell slipping Haymitch's grip and barreling into the room. She's administering the medicine directly into the IV line.

"Calm yourself girl and give me a second," she hisses. She's moving around the room, pulling out different medications and injecting him with them. She changes his position on the bed, raising his head and propping him up. All the while she is muttering angrily to herself about backwater towns and how she isn't returning the scanner, that they'll have to come arrest her.

"Who else was helping with that shipment of grain?" she snaps.

"What? I don't know. He didn't say. What is happening?"

But she ignores me.

"Haymitch," she says, "go to the store and see if you can find out who else helped with that shipment. If you find out, get some help and get to their houses. If it is less than three I have room for them here so bring them. If it's more than three set them up in the government building. If they are unconscious drag them, if they are awake tell them they have to come even if they feel fine."

Surprisingly Haymitch leaves without comment, I assume to do as she's asked. My mind is reeling from exhaustion and hunger, but mostly with frustration and confusion. She is about to leave the room but I grab her arm roughly and force her to stop. She's quite old, but the strength I feel in her arm when she resists my grip is stunning. She rounds on me quickly.

"You get one minute of my time because I like the boy," she looks me up and down, a small grimace on her lips, "You, I'm not crazy about. He's been poisoned, probably pesticides from the look of it. He has swelling in his brain and his kidneys are in trouble. Would've known sooner if I'd had the damn scanner, but then that's what we get living out here. Now that I know how to treat him I hope he'll recover, but that it hit him so hard is a testament to how damaged his body is from what the Capitol did to him. I expect the others are still on their feet with headaches, but they could be in the same state soon without treatment." She looks down at the ground, considering something. "Got to get the word out that the grain is tainted. Damn fools spraying food with poison..." And she's walking. I follow her out, keeping one foot inside the door.

"So he will be all right?" I call after her, my voice breaking.

"Yes, girl! Now leave me be...I have others to attend to now. I'll be back to check on him when I can!"

These last words are swallowed up as she walks out the back door.

I stand there stunned for several seconds. I feel a mixture of relief over her assertion that he will recover, and foreboding about what she said about his body being so damaged from the torture. Will he never be allowed to move past that? Will it always haunt him in some way?

I think of the others that may have been affected, and I feel uneasy. I'm suddenly struck by a memory. Peeta had said that the postmaster's son had been playing on the bags of grain while they were being unloaded, that he'd gotten pretty messy from all of the dust. A chill goes through me. I know that boy can't be more than six years old.

I am back in the room, rummaging through closets and drawers. Does this woman have no paper? I finally find some sitting near the phone in the hall. I write Peeta a note, since I can't bear the thought of him waking up and my not being by his side.

_You are fine. Sick from pesticides on grain. Have to help others. Be back very soon. I- _

I what? I pause. Do I write it? I've never said it, I'm not even sure that I feel it the way that I'm supposed to. Actually, I'm almost positive that I don't feel it the way that I'm supposed to. But when I look at him I know that I need to try to feel it that way, if that is even possible, because that is what he deserves.

_I love you._

I put the note on his chest where he's sure to find it if he wakes up. I look back at Peeta for a moment, feeling reckless and unsure, before I am running out the door, sprinting for the post office.

* * *

It is Peeta who wakes me. I've been sleeping in the chair by his bed, my head resting on his arm.

"Hey," he says, his voice rough from disuse.

"Peeta!" My reason tells me to use caution, so I stand and take his hand, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. I keep my face near his. "How do you feel?"

He looks puzzled for a moment before he responds,

"Well, I've felt a lot worse, but I don't feel great...what happened?"

I tell him everything, about the grain and him becoming unconscious, about the others who had to be treated. I leave out that no one was affected as badly as him. I tell him about Sam the little boy, who had been home sick for two days with what his mother thought was the flu, but that he was better now. I also tell him about how panic-stricken his mother had looked when I'd come barging into the post office demanding to see her son.

"Well," Haymitch says, walking into the room. I haven't seen him today. "It's not every day that the Mockingjay swoops in to save the day."

I frown at the reference to the Mockingjay...I haven't been that person in a very long time, but my happiness at Peeta's awakening overrides my annoyance.

I turn back to Peeta and I sweep his face with my eyes. His color is returning. I push a stray bit of hair from his face.

"I am so happy that you are better," I say. And I really mean it. For once I don't feel afraid of what that happiness might cost me.

"Me too," he says softly, looking in my eyes.

We sit there for a while holding hands and after a while he falls asleep. I know he is still healing and that it is tiring work, but his falling asleep so quickly makes me nervous. I start pacing around the bed, shifting the bedclothes and checking on his fluid drip, which is absurd because there is no way I would know if there was something wrong with it.

"He's going to be fine Katniss," Haymitch says. "Why don't we take a walk?" At first I protest, but in the end he convinces me, telling me that we can go a little way into the woods. I haven't been out there in three days, and I have to admit that it's been calling to me.

When we've broken the tree line, I put my palm on a moss-covered tree and I confess my worries about the long-term state of Peeta's health to Haymitch.

"She said that the reason the pesticides affected him so much more than everyone else is because his body was very damaged from what the Capitol did to him...what do you think that means?"

Haymitch is quiet for a moment.

"Did you give him your note?" he asks.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Did you give it to him?"

"No," I say defensively, feeling for the note in my back pocket. When I'd returned with the boy I'd removed it from Peeta's chest and put it in my pocket. Now I'm assuming Haymitch must have seen it on him since he returned to Doc Lou's before I did.

"Well did you tell him when he woke up?"

I'm starting to get mad.

"What does this have to do with what the doctor said about his health?"

"Everything," he says and is silent.

"Haymitch," I say, struggling to keep the anger from seeping into my voice, and failing for the most part. "I'm tired. The last four days have been crap. My brain isn't working really well so if you have a point please make it."

"Do you have a date stamped on your ass?"

"Excuse me?"

"No?" he says, and I can tell that he is getting angry as well. "Well I don't either, and neither does he, although based on what you've just told me, it sounds like his expiration date may be a bit shorter than someone your age might expect. Could be fifty years from now, could be ten, and could be tomorrow, Katniss. There are no guarantees, not for anybody. So the question is...are you going to waste it?"

I'm standing frozen. He's right. He's absolutely right. And I was going to try to hide it for a little bit longer, get more comfortable with the idea...but for what? Until the next catastrophe, which, let's face it, with our track record is likely to be a biannual occurrence? My feelings are such a knotted mess and contain so much bitterness and anxiety; it is hard to pick the word 'love' out of it all. Maybe the way that I feel love isn't quite the way everyone else does, but I can certainly try care for him and love him the way he deserves. I doubt I'll stop being afraid. But I can stop being a coward.

I heave a sigh.

"If Doc says it's okay will you help me take him home tomorrow?

"Of course," he says, shrugging.

An unrelated question strikes me.

"When did you stop drinking?" I ask.

He starts laughing.

"What is so funny?" I ask, a smirk settling on my face.

"Me. Stop drinking…that is hilarious." And he keeps laughing as if this really is funny.

"But you've been so helpful, these past few days. So responsible. So lucid. I really thought you'd quit."

"If I quit drinking my body would close up shop faster than you could snap your fingers. No. I can drink moderately when duty calls."

I look at him for several seconds. I feel angry and sad that he will never stop drinking, and that it has probably moved his expiration date closer than it should be.

"Is that what I am? Your duty?"

He levels a look at me, his grey eyes even and clear.

"I'll be your mentor for the rest of my life, Katniss, however long that might be. Sometimes it feels like a duty and sometimes it feels like…something different. Either way, I'm here until I'm not."

Something about the way he says it...he doesn't sound sad, or begrudging. He sounds glad and a bit proud. I get a small lump in my throat, and I think about how much things have changed with Haymitch over the past year and a half. I will the tears to stay out of my eyes. Can't let him see me getting all soft over him when he now knows how vulnerable I am with Peeta. We look at one another quietly for several seconds.

"I want to get back to him," I say, and he nods. We walk back to Doc Lou's in silence. We are met on the street by the postmaster, the father of Sam, the boy I took to Doc Lou's. He is carrying on thanking me, over and over, and I feel myself flushing. He invites Haymitch, Peeta and I to dinner once Peeta's recovered. Haymitch graciously accepts, nudging me gently. I nod and tell him that I'd like that.

When we are out of earshot I give Haymitch a look.

"What was that all about?" Shaking myself a little. "Aren't I supposed to be banished out here? A pariah? People shouldn't be inviting me to dinner. I'm supposed to be hiding in my house, wallowing in my guilt. I did shoot a president after all." I feel genuinely confused and a little annoyed.

"Well…we are still on the edge of Panem out here…this town is going to be small for a long time, and probably it'll be mostly the families who lived here before. I don't think any of them are holding any grudges."

Haymitch is quiet for a moment before thoughtfully adding,

"It's best to be on good terms with the neighbors."

I burst out laughing, which surprises me after so many days of being afraid and anxious. I laugh so hard I have to stop and I'm doubled over in the street.

"This from the man who was the town drunk for years! Who hated everyone! Where is this coming from?"

He seems to see the joke and he gets a kind of guilty smirk on his face.

"It's got to be you damn kids rubbing off on me."

"Oh, no! It is definitely not me; I am just as antisocial as you! This has Peeta written all over it!"

"I've never been antisocial…I'm eccentric."

"Haymitch…Effie was eccentric. You are a curmudgeon."

"Effie was only eccentric here. In the Capitol she was perfectly normal."

"You are right," I say, smiling for a minute before it fades from my lips. "Do we know what happened to her?"

"It is funny you should ask. I actually got a letter from her about a month ago."

"What did it say?"

"I don't know, I threw it in the fire without opening it."

"Haymitch!"

"What could that vacant-headed woman possibly have to tell me?"

I look at him for several seconds, incensed.

"What district did it come from?"

"Four."

"I'm writing her a letter tomorrow and calling my mother. She'll be able to find her." I'm shaking my head at him, half mad and half smiling. "You are unbelievable."

"Thank you."

We are back at Doc Lou's. I'm stalling outside of the front door.

"This is where I leave you, sweetheart."

I nod at him, distracted.

"You'll come tomorrow to help me bring him home?" I know I already asked him this, but for some reason I need reassurance that I'm not going to be alone in all this. That there will be someone else there to help me untangle my emotional knots when I don't know what to do.

"Yes."

I'm still hesitating.

"You don't have to tell him everything tonight, Katniss."

I look at Haymitch, and tears fill my eyes. Great. Now I'm crying in front of him.

"I don't even know what I'd tell him. I wrote those words, but it was reckless. I think I feel love, I know that I want to, but I don't have the same…I don't know…purity of feeling that he does, about anything! About the only emotion I've ever been completely sure of is my anger. Everything else is so convoluted. I never thought it would be so…"

Try as I might I can't find the word.

"Scary?"

I nod my head at him. He's quiet for a while, but then he cocks his head at me.

"As a fellow dissenter from the cult of love, I think that the best way forward is to be honest. And a little time won't hurt. Just make sure you do something every day to make him know that he's in your heart, whatever that means, and before you know it you won't be scared anymore."

"How do you know this?"

"I don't!" he says, laughing, as he turns and walks away. "I'm making it up as I go along."

I watch him as he walks away, before I turn and face the door.

"Here goes nothing," I breathe, as I open the door and walk through.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 - Changes

I shift anxiously in my chair so that I can get a better look out the window. I stare out longingly at the trees. We've been lucky enough to get an early spring, and I wish for the millionth time this evening that I was out there instead of stuck inside. At a dinner party. The postmaster, whose name is Jimin, asks me for the third time if I'd like another helping of stew, and I have to fight from gritting my teeth together when I politely decline.

"What about you Peeta? Haymitch?"

"No thank you sir, but it was delicious" Peeta says amiably.

"I couldn't eat another bite, but I'd love another glass of that sherry. Where was it that you said you got it from ma'am?" Haymitch asks, as he fills his glass to within an inch of the rim without waiting for a response.

I roll my eyes but stifle a groan.

"My sister lives in the Capitol...or what was the Capitol. They've been redistributing everything since..." the woman, Sabel, looks at me nervously and drops her eyes, "well since the Fall, and she got her hands on this and sent it to us for Christmas this year."

I begin to wonder how one sister could have lived in the Capitol while another lived in District Twelve, but I can't think of how to frame the question without being rude.

"That must be difficult," Peeta says, "being so far from your sister."

The woman visibly warms when she turns to Peeta.

"Yes. She married a peacekeeper when she was very young, and he was re-commissioned to the Capitol shortly thereafter. It was a big change for her to go from living here all her life to being in the Capitol. I know that she never made the transition fully."

I'm more at a loss than I usually am. How is it possible that a girl from Twelve fell in love with a peacekeeper? And then move to the Capitol?

"That must be some story," Peeta says, his voice soft.

"Yes!" Sabel says, smiling, and I can see a bit of her youth. At first I thought she and Jimin were as old as Haymitch, but I've since realized that it is the weight of their lives that makes them seem old, and that they are probably only in their late-twenties with a son as young as Sam. Even Haymitch isn't as old to me as he'd once seemed. I'm not sure why, but after everything that we've been through forty-three seems a lot less old to me now than forty did when we were Reaped for the Games.

Sable continues.

"At first it was a family scandal, but in the end we all realized that they really loved one another. It was just a bit of bad luck that he got sent to the Capitol for his job...or good luck, depending on how you look at it." She stops talking, shooting me another nervous look.

I try to smile but this seems to make her more nervous and she jumps up, muttering about coffee.

Peeta reaches between us and takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I look at him, trying to mask how uncomfortable I am and give him a tight smile. His eyes are gentle, imploring.

Without saying it I know he is asking me if I want to leave, and even though the answer is yes, I will endure this for a little while longer, because visiting people makes him happy, and this is one of the ways that I am trying harder.

Plus I have a promise to keep.

"Sam, do you want to go outside?" I ask. "Now would be a good time to show you some tricks with your slingshot before it gets too dark."

Sam gives me a look that is so heartbreakingly adoring that I can't help but smile. He is suddenly up and out of his chair, begging by his father's side.

"Please, please can I go outside with Miss Katniss, pleeaasse?"

"Of course," Jimin says kindly, though I don't miss the look he shoots over his shoulder back into the kitchen. I'm sure Sabel would be less than pleased.

I go outside with Sam, feeling like I can breathe a bit. It is so much easier being outside, and I find myself chatting with him about hunting squirrels and setting snares. We spend some time shooting at targets lined up on the split rail fence that runs the length of their property, and all the while he is chattering on. I don't mind being with him because he's a bit too young to really know anything about me, other than that I have excellent aim, a fact that been circulating about me again since I've been selling game at the general store.

"Is it true that you always get them right through the eye?" he asks me, his voice hushed and reverential.

"You have to with squirrels and rabbits." _And presidents_, I can't help but think. "You don't want to ruin the meat or the pelt." I'm standing behind him, bent over with my arms wrapped around him, trying to help him line up a shot.

Peeta and Haymitch emerge, followed by Jimin and Sabel, and I catch a strange look on Peeta's face. A happy, nostalgic type of look. I help Sam take the shot and then step away, making my way to Peeta's side quickly.

I know what that look means and it is dangerous.

We say our goodbyes. I don't think I am imagining it when I see Sabel's shoulders slump in relief as we turn to go.

When we are finally home I realize how exhausted I am from the evening. As if reading my mind, Peeta asks,

"Tired?"

"Yeah, I'm ready for bed I think." And it is true, even though it is early.

"Okay." He pauses.

"Seeing you with Sam, it seemed like you were having fun. I didn't think you liked kids."

I feel defensive, but then I realize that from his perspective this must seem true.

"No, I like kids just fine. Just don't want any of my own."

He nods but I catch the wounded look flash in his eyes. He recovers with grace.

"See you in the morning," he says.

I go into my room. I get undressed. A choice that I've been struggling to make needles me for what seems like the hundredth time, and I'm so frustrated when I pull on my pajamas that I actually rip one of the seams a little. Great. I try to figure out what is making me feel pressure to decide tonight, when I realize what it is. The night that we were invited to this dinner was the night that I found out that Peeta was going to live, though probably with a shortened lifespan. It was several months ago, as it took a while for Peeta to recover, and it took me a bit longer to work myself up to the point where I felt I'd be able to sit down to dinner with strangers. I'd spent the intervening months trying to do what Haymitch said, which was to do something every day to show Peeta that he was in my heart. This has proved surprisingly easy, since holding hands and going for walks seems to make him very happy.

But this dinner was the next step for me, pushing beyond my comfort zone to give him something that I know he wants, which is contact and relationships with other people. I'll never be a social butterfly, and it is likely that he'll always do more visiting without me. But if I can go about half the time that would at least be something.

I return to the choice I have yet to make. I mentally pull myself up by my bootstraps. _It is now or never Everdeen_. I pull my pillow from off the bed, pick up my bow and quiver and walk down to his room. I knock on the door.

He answers, still dressed from dinner.

"Katniss?"

"Can I sleep in here with you?"

His brow is furrowed with concern.

"Of course is everything all right?"

"Yes. I just want to sleep in here. We end up together most nights anyway, so I don't see why we don't just start off that way...maybe it will keep the nightmares from coming at all."

"Okay," he says, though he still looks worried.

I enter, set the weapons by the door, and slide into his bed. I look at him.

"Goodnight."

"Okay. Goodnight, I'll be in after I get washed up."

"Okay," I say, yawning.

He thinks I'm hiding something, and I am, which is that over the next week I plan to move a good deal of my things, which don't really amount to much, into this room.

* * *

"You have a package from your mother, Katniss!"

I'm carrying a load of bedding down the stairs. It is the second week of June and we are moving out to the lake in a couple of days. I bring everything into the kitchen and place it on one of the chairs, steadying it with my hand.

"It's about time…my birthday was over a month ago. Is it me or does the train seem to be getting slower?"

"I don't know, but I can't wait to see the picture of Effie. Open it up," Peeta says, leaning over my shoulder and putting a hand on the small of my back. I lean down, pull the knife from my boot and use it to slice through the tape. When I open the box there is an assortment of things. There are some bottles of medicine, mostly for pain and colds, and a small box containing an assortment of rocks and shells. My mother always sends me these things…medicine and odd bits and pieces of things she picks up while walking on the beach. I get lost for a moment trying to picture her in such an alien landscape, but then I move on. My actual birthday gift from my mother is a lovely, if not somewhat impractical, hair comb that has little shells and beads intricately woven throughout the top of its teeth. Her letter is brief, but we are rewarded with a picture of her and Effie standing next to one another.

At first I am shocked by how my mother looks. I have not seen her since being in the Capitol and it is amazing how much she has changed in a relatively short period of time. Her hair is short and shot through with grey, and the angles of her face are somewhat softened. It is her eyes that surprise me the most, as they are sharp and serious. I don't ever recall her looking so well, even though her expression clearly broadcasts the burdens that she has had to bear.

I am so caught up in looking at my mother that it takes me a while to notice that the stranger standing by her side is clearly Effie Trinket. Peeta has been silent, which may be out of respect while I look at my mother or it may be the shock of seeing Effie without a wig and makeup.

"Whoa!" I gasp. "Look at her! There was a real live person under there after all…"

"I don't believe it," Peeta stammers, "she's so…so…"

"Pretty. And young." I finish for him. "She can't be older than Haymitch. I always thought that she was some old lady under all of that…but look at her."

It is true. The woman that I am staring at may be around forty, with bright eyes and blonde hair. She, unlike my mother, is smiling for the camera. On second look her eyes may be less bright and actually be a bit hysterical, like a cornered animal, and she is showing a bit too much teeth for her to look happy. She's clearly uncomfortable. I have a moment to wonder if all of her bravado was really being held up by all the makeup and costumes when Peeta interrupts my thoughts.

"There is something else in here."

I look in the bottom of the package, which I've mostly forgotten about, and see that there is a large, thick grey envelope with a note attached to it. I pick up the note.

_Dear Katniss,_

_I wrote to Haymitch over six months ago regarding this package as I felt that it was something that belonged to you. When I never heard from him in reply, I assumed that you were not well enough to receive the contents of this package and I did not persist in trying to contact you. However, when you contacted me through your mother earlier this spring and she assured me of your progress, I considered it to be my duty to get this to you straight away. Please give my regards to Peeta._

_Yours,_

_Effie_

I pick up the envelope.

"It's heavy," I murmur, feeling suddenly apprehensive. What could Effie possibly have found that would be of importance to me? I open it, and slide out a rather large book, the binding of which is broken from pages that are overstuffed. I open to the front page.

"Cinna," I cry, my voice small, tears springing to my eyes immediately.

It is Cinna's sketchbook! I stare at the fine slant of his handwriting on the first page. The words are nothing significant, a date, the name of a street, a few items to buy on a list, but they are all Cinna's words written with his hand.

"Cinna." I say his name again, running my hand across the page, my throat tight with grief.

"I will leave you alone for a while Katniss," Peeta says.

"No!" I turn toward him quickly, reaching for his hand. "Please stay here with me."

He nods and looks pleasantly surprised, taking my hand and his place just behind my back. In truth he is right. I do want this moment to myself to grieve for Cinna alone since he was my only true friend from the Capitol and, not counting Peeta and occasionally Haymitch, my best ally. But I feel like sharing this with Peeta is significant in some way that I don't quite understand and so I want him here.

I gather my wits and begin turning pages. It is clear from the start that this is not only Cinna's sketchbook but also his datebook and diary of sorts. There are little scribblings and notes all over the margins, the majority of which are of little consequence. Most of the initial sketches have nothing to do with me…they are simply clothing designs. About a quarter of the way in however I see the beginnings of a familiar theme. Fire. On the page that holds the sketch for my and Peeta's costumes for the 74th Hunger Games, there is a small quote written at the bottom of the page.

_Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens. Epictetus._

I run my finger over it, feeling a tear fall down my cheek. There are more and more pages, and interspersed there are bits of fabric pinned to the pages. On the page that holds the sketch for the dress that I wore to the re-cap of the Games there is a bit of the fine yellow fabric pinned. There is a spot of blood on the fabric and I imagine that he must have pricked his finger while attaching it to the page. I allow myself a moment to cry as I place my finger over the spot of blood. Peeta is silent, his hand placed gently in the middle of my back.

I move more quickly through the pages, knowing that I will be able to return to this book again and again, and I want to see everything now. I chuckle a little when I get to the pages that have the words "Katniss designs" written in the corner. All at once I am at the end and it is strange getting there, because all the scribbling notes and lists have been slowly tapering off and the last few pages are free of words and contain only drawings. Interestingly the sketches for my Mockingjay suit are not the last ones in the book. The final page has my wedding gown as it transforms into the Mockingjay. There are words at the bottom.

_An alliance with a powerful person is never safe. Phaedrus._

I am struck completely silent. I can't even breathe.

He knew what would happen to him. He knew and he did it anyway.

"Peeta," I gasp. I place the book on the table and start backing away from it. "Peeta…he knew…"

"I know," he says quietly.

"How could he do that? How could he just sacrifice his whole life? I don't understand!"

I am crying so hard that I can't see, and I turn into him to bury my face in his chest. He's rubbing my back and making shushing sounds into my hair.

"You, of anyone, know how he did that Katniss. You did it for Prim."

"But she was my sister." I can barely get the words out I am crying so hard.

"I know. But I think that Cinna cared a lot about you…like you were family. Someone that he had to help."

I try to separate out my thoughts, but I can't stop thinking two things. That he lost his life for me and that I'll never get to thank him. The words 'thank you' are running through my head like a mantra.

"How do you think Effie got this?" Peeta asks.

I'm grateful for the distraction. I think about it for a few moments.

"Could have been anyone…probably someone on my prep team."

"Yeah, that makes sense," he says quietly.

I've finally run out of tears but I'm still leaning heavily into Peeta's arms. I look up at him.

"We owe him as much as we do Haymitch," he says, looking thoughtful.

I don't know exactly what makes me do it. Part of me thinks that there is some imaginary time limit that has just expired, that to delay any longer will result in dire repercussions. That I am softened and humbled by Effie's gift and Cinna's sacrifice are surely a part of it. I reach my hand up, smoothing his cheek with my fingers. I push up onto my toes and place a kiss on his lips, lingering for a long time. It is the first one that we have shared since the winter, since before he was sick. As the kiss deepens, his arms wrap around me tightly. I know that I should be getting some kind of internal warning signal that we should stop, but it doesn't come. The longer the kiss continues, the more I experience a peculiar mixture of contentment and desire. My heart begins to beat very fast, and at one point I break the kiss to catch my breath although I do not loosen my grip on him.

"What was that?" Peeta asks gently, equally breathless, but then quickly adds, "not that I'm complaining." And he smiles.

I pull him back to me.

"Something new," I say, before returning to our kiss.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Just a couple of thoughts regarding timeline. I'm sure most of you have noticed that while this story is chronological, there are often great leaps forward in time. I have an idea in my mind of how long I think things may have taken post-assassination, and I've done my best to move forward in a way that makes sense. I make this point now because I mention Haymitch's age and I put a bit of thought into that. If anyone is curious I'd be happy to explain it, but I won't go into it here. One thing that I didn't realize is that Katniss has an actual birthdate, which I discovered last week while re-reading the Hunger Games. It makes my fic off a bit earlier on, but only by a matter of a few months. For now I will leave it, but I may eventually go back and fix it. **

**As many of you may have guessed, this story is almost at its end. I am not sure if there will be one or two more chapters. I considered cutting this chapter in half and turning it into two, but I thought the stories dovetailed nicely, and dragging it out doesn't make sense to me. I am almost certain that I will write an epilogue of sorts, but the format and perspective will be different. **

**Thank you to all who are reading and especially to my reviewers. This has been so much fun for me, and I've enjoyed all of you immensely. **


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 – In The End – Part One

I stomp into the front door of Haymitch's house and let the door slam behind me. I've learned over the years that this is how he prefers to be alerted to my arrival, and with the mood I am in today it suits me just fine.

"I'm in the back, Katniss," he yells from the back yard.

I walk out into chaos, as this is the domain of his flock, and it is large and unruly. Geese can be particularly nasty creatures, territorial and combative, and with his poor tending skills there are a number of issues involving aggressive ganders and too many offspring. I'm glad I don't have much time to talk.

Fortunately for me he hasn't had too much to drink yet today, so he listens somewhat intently to me as I explain to him about the stag.

"I've been stalking the damn thing for two weeks, but every time I get close he spooks; a flock of birds takes off or I step on the wrong bit of ground and a twig snaps."

"Okay," he says while dragging the ground with a rake to try to clear out some of the detritus. "So you can't kill something. I imagine this has happened to you once or twice over the course of your time as a…master…" he's waving a hand in my direction, looking me up and down, as if he's searching for a word.

"Hunter, Haymitch, hunter!" I growl, feeling completely frustrated with his behavior. "And of course it has happened, dozens of times…but what is different about this time is that I can't shake it. Normally, I miss a kill, I move on…just find something else."

"Okay, so then move on," he says simply.

"It is more than the deer. I feel like something is wrong with me. I can't even think about eating that venison…I have no taste for it. I barely want anything to eat. So why am I going after this deer like this? What's wrong with me?"

"How are things with Peeta?" Haymitch asks and he diverts his eyes.

"What?" I ask, feeling angry. What does this have to do with anything? "Peeta is fine. The bakery is opening next week on the first day of July."

"Oh, yeah?" Haymitch asks, sounding vaguely disinterested. "So anything else new?" He levels a look at me.

I feel like he is not really asking me a question but is actually trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it is, and I'm losing my patience with him.

"No. Nothing else is new. We are fine. The lake is nice. Will you please just tell me what you think?"

Haymitch turns and walks up to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. The corner of his mouth turns up slightly.

"Doesn't really matter what I think, sweetheart. What matters is what you think."

"Well if I knew that I wouldn't be asking you."

He blows his breath out between his lips and looks off over my shoulder.

"What are you really asking me?"

"Ugh, Haymitch, if I wanted to talk in circles I'd call my mother. Just give a straight answer...do you think I'm going crazy?"

He looks me dead in the eye.

"No. But I think that you have to find your own way on this one."

"What in the hell does that even mean?"

He smiles at me, and it isn't his usual sarcastic or demeaning smile. It is genuinely concerned.

"Katniss…I can't help you through this. But you are so capable. You will find your way. Just stick with Peeta. He will help you."

_What the hell does that mean_, I repeat to myself as I leave.

I return to the lake more frustrated than I was before I went to have my completely useless conversation with Haymitch. Peeta is sitting with his back to me, his good leg dangling lazily in the water. He looks at me over his shoulder, but he has the grace not to mention my lack of a deer carcass.

"How was your afternoon?" he asks, his tone light. I don't want to mention my conversation with Haymitch. For some reason that I can't put my finger on I almost feel like I went there behind Peeta's back, which is absurd. And Haymitch didn't tell me anything anyway, so why I feel so duplicitous is beyond me.

"You're being careful with me," I say feeling like a child, "because I've been so irritable and irrational lately."

He stands up and comes over to me.

"I'm being _nice_ to you because it seems like you are going through a rough time. There is a difference. I'm pretty sure coddling you would get me shot. How did it go today?" he asks. I shake my head and for one frightening instant I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, but I force them down.

"I don't know. I feel like he is just lingering out there, just out of reach, waiting for me to get it together and shoot him. But then I do something and the moment is lost and he takes off."

I've laid my weapons on the ground, and I'm clutching my elbows with my hands, avoiding eye contact.

He places his hands on either side of my face, bringing his face down to meet my eyes.

"I'm not trying to make you more angry or anything Katniss…but I doubt he is waiting for you to shoot him. Not really in his best interest."

I smile a little at his joke, not really because I think it is funny, but because I know that I have been so short-tempered with him lately, and he has taken it better than I deserve. I look at him, searching his eyes for something that will help me make sense of my obsession with getting the stag.

"I'm not even hungry for it," I say. "Not like I am in the winter when we need to stock up. And certainly not like I've been in the past. I just feel like I have to go after him. Why am I so consumed with this?"

I stand there shifting from one foot to the other clutching my elbows. Suddenly there is a knot of tears in my throat.

"I don't know," he says gently.

He draws me into a kiss and my initial response is to pull away. I don't want to be comforted. I want to kill the deer. But as I let the time pass and the kiss deepens, I feel myself being pulled into a different field of desire, where my instincts don't push me to want to conquer, but rather consume.

For some reason that I cannot fathom Peeta breaks the kiss and turns his back to me, beckoning me to come sit down for dinner.

"Hey," I say quietly, "you okay?"

He nods his head without looking at me.

"Yeah. I'm feeling…I don't know…keyed up about something. Must be the bakery or…" he trails off shrugging his shoulders, but the look that he shoots me over his shoulder holds heat in it. I've seen that look a lot lately and it always leaves me feeling strangely expectant. I feel a little unsure, because he has been doing so well with his issues and I'd hate to see him backsliding.

He takes my hand and draws me to the blanket where our food is waiting. Even though I want to talk to him about how he is feeling I oblige begrudgingly, because I know time with him will make my bloodlust easier to bear, and maybe I'll be able to get him to talk about what's bothering him. With him there will always be companionship, and though I love the hunt, more and more I find the pleasure of our reunions just as satisfying.

He's made a simple meal of bread, roasted rabbit and greens, though I eat very little, my stomach is in such turmoil. I've honestly started to question whether or not I've picked up a bug.

He reaches across to remove my plate.

"Not hungry again love?" he asks gently.

I shake my head.

"It is like something is gnawing at me…I just can't shake it. Do you think I am sick?"

He smiles at me and shakes his head.

"Well you sure don't look sick. We eat and drink the same things and we're together all the time…if you were sick then I think I would be too."

"Then what is it?" I ask, and this time the tears do break to the surface.

He moves over to sit next to me and takes me in his arms. But I don't want to be comforted. I am too agitated. I turn toward him and take his face in my hands. I start to kiss him. At first the kiss has the effect of emptying my mind, which is so welcome that I breathe a sigh of relief. Peeta reacts to this by wrapping me more tightly in his arms. The kiss begins to change into something new, something that is heated and rough. At one point I bite down on his bottom lip, and rather than it causing him to pull away, he makes a sound like a soft groan, and he pulls me closer to him.

I don't understand, and I begin to push away, but he holds me tighter. At first I feel angry, like it is not up to him to decide whether or not to break the kiss. But as things continue I do not want to stop, and though my initial reaction was to get away, to defend, there is an older, almost ancient feeling that has begun to drag and pull at me from deep inside my body.

Suddenly he picks me up and carries me into the broken cabin, and full understanding of the situation becomes known to me. I'm surprised to realize that I feel scared; perhaps more scared than I have ever been in my life. But I also realize that trying to maintain distance from Peeta is not the answer anymore. That not moving forward in our relationship is making me restless and there is no point to it anymore, that all the walls have all been taken down brick by brick over the past two years, and enough is enough all ready.

He places me on the bed and more kisses are exchanged and many words, promises about forever and always, and though I don't know if I quite believe in these things I feel compelled to put my faith in them for him.

There is fumbling with buttons and the positioning of limbs, because despite all of the things that have happened in our lives neither of us has any experience with this. Fortunately our bodies seem to know their own needs and moving together toward the inevitable end is our only course. At one point I look at his face, and all in the same moment it seems like I'm looking at him for the first time and then it is like I've known his face forever, perhaps since the instant of my birth. When it is over, I am confused when he asks me if I love him, and I affirm my feelings, smoothing his furrowed brow with a kiss.

A few hours pass, during which we alternate between sleeping and making love. At one point I am lying there looking up through the broken roof and I let out a soft laugh.

"What?" he asks gently.

"Haymitch must think I'm a fool."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I was stomping all over his house, whining about the deer, and I'm pretty sure that he was trying to tell me to come home to you. That is all he has been saying to me for the past six months it seems."

He is quiet for several moments.

"I'm going to sidestep how truly disturbing the thought of Haymitch giving you relationship advice is and ask you something."

"Okay," I say.

"Were you really ready for all of this before now?"

I think about it for a bit.

"No. Now seems right. I mean it could have happened at any time I suppose, and it's not like I didn't think about it." I pause and look at him a bit nervously, feeling exposed that I'm admitting this to him.

As if reading my mind he says with a smile and without flinching,

"All the time, Katniss, I have barely thought of anything else in months. You don't have to look embarrassed."

"Then why didn't you say something?"

He is quiet for such a long time that I almost wonder if he's fallen asleep.

"I don't push you on things. Part of it is because I love you so much and part of it is because you can be so volatile. I'm sorry to say it, but it's true. We've both gotten better by being together…it's not perfect and it never will be. There will always be nightmares and flashbacks and scars," he pauses, running his finger across the burn scar on my neck. "But it just didn't make sense to push for anything with you when there was the possibility that it could end up pushing you away."

I know that he is right, though I don't enjoy hearing it. I know that this whole thing has progressed on my terms and that it isn't quite fair. And I can't make the excuse that I've been through more or have been more damaged by what has happened to us, because on those counts he and I are about even. It seems like the only course open to me is to try to move past it and to continue to grow with him and for him.

To that end I try to turn the conversation away from serious topics, a technique with which he is infinitely more skilled. But I feel secure enough with him to make a little joke at his expense.

"So tonight," I whisper, a smile on my lips, "when I tried to pull away when we were kissing and you wouldn't let me go…that wasn't you pushing?"

He smiles.

"Maybe that was me pushing a little," and he laughs nuzzling into my neck. "You are just so affecting when you are angry, and you've been so worked up over the damn deer. I didn't think I would last another day."

I smile and kiss him.

"I'm glad you didn't have to."

* * *

The next day I find myself up in a tree waiting for the deer, running my fingers over my lips and driven to distraction, thinking only of him and finding my way back into our bed. I left early this morning before he woke because I thought I could clear my head, but instead I find I am consumed by thoughts of our entwined bodies, of the feel of his breath on my lips and skin.

The stag walks into my sights while I am completely unaware. He is standing there exposed, and I stare at him for several minutes as he grazes, knowing that I can take his life so easily. I raise my bow silently, knocking the arrow into its familiar place, allowing myself to breathe. At the last moment the stag raises his head and looks me dead in the eye. This is of course not the first time an animal has done this to me. I have locked eyes with my prey hundreds of times before I've sent an arrow straight into them, extinguishing their life quickly, and I hope, relatively painlessly. But the stag and I stare at one another for a long time. During this time I realize two things.

First, I am certain that he knows that he is dead. That there is nowhere that he can run. That I have him, fair and square.

Secondly, I realize that I am not going to kill him. This stag is safe. That I will still hunt is a given, it is who I am and who I will be for the rest of my life. But this creature will be safe from me forever. I readjust and release the arrow near his hind end and the arrow grazes his hide, deep enough to leave a scar, but not enough to do threatening damage. So that I will always know him, and never do him harm. He takes off from the sting of my arrow and I watch as he disappears into the forest.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve – In The End – Part Two

**This chapter has a slightly higher rating for language (Haymitch…language!)**

* * *

I'm staring down at the frozen ground and only one thing keeps going through my mind.

_Damn I could use a drink_.

I quit drinking when Katniss had her daughter, and that was almost ten years ago. I figured that I hadn't managed to play any kind of role in a family for most of my life, and this was my last shot. Katniss said she was willing to let her daughter call me Grandpa if I'd keep the drinking to a minimum around her. I couldn't trust myself to be able to gauge what _minimum_ meant, so after a lot of miserable days and nights I managed to quit.

Strange thing is that it wasn't Peeta's idea, letting their daughter call me Grandpa. Seems like such a tender thing, and I know better than anyone that Katniss has about as much tenderness in her heart as a hand grenade has butterflies. Or I thought I knew. I'll be damned if that girl didn't surprise me on a biweekly basis over the years.

I hear her coming, though just barely, her tread is still feather-light even after all these years. Not that she's ever stopped hunting…I think it would be easier for her to learn to breathe under water than to live without hunting.

Today is a day I am grateful for that.

She arrives at my side and stands straight, hands hanging, feet slightly apart. As if she is about to run.

"Kids with your mother?" I ask.

She doesn't say anything, just nods her head.

It is snowing lightly, and my feet and back ache from the cold and from standing for so long. But I told her I'd be here today, so here I am. I lean heavily into the walking stick that started out as something to steady me but if I'm honest with myself has turned into a crutch.

_Getting old fucking sucks._

"Today we would have been married twenty five years," she says, her voice flat.

I say nothing but I look at her. I can tell she has been crying. She has the hollow-eyed look of someone who has been crying steadily for months. And I don't doubt that she has been crying for that long.

"I never really got a clear read when it was that you two actually got hitched. When did he ask you?"

"He didn't," she says, her voice shaking a little. "I finally asked him one night. We were sitting in the kitchen. I think I was cooking something and he was working on some papers for the bakery."

She pauses, and I can see her remembering, her eyes moving over the ground as if she is watching the events unfold in front of her.

"I burned myself on something, and suddenly he was there, placing a cold cloth on it and making a fuss. You know how he always did that…made a fuss over me?" She looks at me searchingly, her eyes wide and wet with tears.

I nod at her, and it is certainly true. I have been watching the two of them for close to thirty years.

In the beginning I had no hope for Peeta…I figured he'd go out early in the first Games, throw himself in front of her trying to protect her from something. I remember thinking that strategy would end poorly for him, since I'd have expected her to shoot him in the back for his trouble.

And then the Quarter Quell. I always have such a hard time thinking about the Quell. Most of what happened was out of my hands, but I let them both believe that I had their backs. Even if the rebellion hadn't wanted her I would have always picked Katniss…I'd lost too many kids over the years. Once I had one who was capable of surviving, I'd be damned if I let her go. But I knew that she wanted the boy to live, and I betrayed her. Worse than that, I knew he was better than both of us, a better person…and yet I still picked her. Watching him, watching her and vice versa, all through the damn Quell…I thought I'd lose my mind.

And then of course there was the tragedy of his torture, and the loss of his mind. I watched how he looked at her for a long time after that…certainly during the war, but even for the first year after we returned to Twelve. It kept me up at night to think of them together, how unguarded they were both becoming, and how he could snap at any instant.

But then things changed. I watched them save one another again and again in little ways, first through friendship and then tenderness. It took me a long time to trust Peeta again, but not nearly as long as it took Katniss.

"Are you listening Haymitch?" she asks, her voice impatient.

"Yes, sweetheart, yes…he did always make a fuss over you. So then what happened?"

Her eyes soften again as she continues,

"He was holding the cloth to my burn and murmuring something that was just…so…Peeta. And I blurted out that I wanted to be married already and be done with it."

She starts laughing and I join her.

"Very romantic, Katniss. What a touching story for my grandchildren," I say sarcastically, though not in my old biting way, but in what I have come to consider my superior, yet gently _patriarchal_ way.

"I know, right? And he was so gracious and happy…such a gentleman about the whole thing. And I had just basically told him that I just wanted to get the damn thing over with already!"

She's laughing and crying. I put my hand on her arm and give her a squeeze. I look at her face. She is five years older than I was when I became her mentor, and yet she has changed very little. She seems to have grown more wiry and leaner as she's aged. A few lines around her eyes, long grey streaks in her hair. And of course there are the scars and burns from the war, which have faded but never left. But she remains striking with her dark coal-colored eyes that still seem to smolder sometimes with fury. Even when she laughs some of that wrath seems to leak out of her eyes. I know that it frightens her children sometimes.

My heart seizes with sadness for a moment at the thought that her children will be left with only her, without their gentle, brave father. That she is a good mother and that she loves them is not in question; but she wasn't meant for motherhood. There is a coldness in her that they can sense, and fortunately for them their father had enough warmth for a country. My allegiance will always be to Katniss, but I've never ceased in my belief that Peeta is the better person. Or was.

"Why wouldn't he go to the Capitol, Haymitch?" she asks, her voice low and full of anger. "Why wouldn't he just go and have the damn surgery?"

"You know why Katniss…after what they did to him during the war? Do you really think he could trust them to cut him open?"

"He just needed a new heart!" she cries, putting her hands on her chest and grabbing at herself, as if she is going to claw out her own heart.

"Yes, and in a year it would have been new lungs and then a new liver…he was never going to get better sweetheart. He told me…he didn't want to be sick anymore."

"Why does he get to make that choice? And leave me here? And those children…what am I supposed to do with them when I don't have him?" She is crying and pacing in the snow, knocking over the marker for where Peeta's headstone will be placed in the spring.

I reach out and grab her by the shoulder and she turns toward me, her eyes flashing dangerously. I stare her down. She may be younger, and I'll admit, stronger than I am at this point, but I hold my ground. I keep staring at her for as long as she'll look at me and I see so many emotions run through her eyes…all of the clichés. But the one that surprises me is her fear.

It is because of this that my grip on her shoulder lessens, that all of my admonishments about sucking it up and doing what you have to for the children dry up on my tongue like ash.

"Come here," I say, letting my damn walking stick fall to the ground.

She throws herself into my arms, almost toppling me, and it is as if she is a girl again and I am the grown up who is going to try to save her life.

"Don't count me out, sweetheart. I'll help you through this," I say. I let her cry for a long time. My feet and my back scream at me but I tell them to go to hell. After a while she starts crying less and sniffling more and I can tell that she's getting herself together. When she pulls away from the embrace, she gives me a little smile, which is about as much in the way of gratitude as I've ever received from Katniss.

"I know that you mean well Haymitch…but you're so old," she says quietly, and though I know she is thinking in practical terms, that in all likelihood I won't be around too much longer to help with the kids, I can't help but get a little snarky with her.

"Hey, watch it sweetheart…I'll have you know that I spent about twenty five years of my life drinking which means that I am somewhere around one-third pickled. I'll keep just fine. Unlike you, your children are darlings and give me no trouble. I'll make it to a hundred just to spite you."

This makes her smile a little.

"All right, all right," she says gently, while bending down to straighten the marker for Peeta's stone. She kisses her fingers and pushes them through snow and into the ground. She says something else but I can't make it out. It's none of my business anyway.

She fetches my walking stick for me and we walk back to our houses together.

* * *

I'm lying on my back with my head resting in Peeta's lap. It is a perfect August evening, the sky darkening to a deep blue with a soft, cool breeze. The first evening stars are starting to emerge. My hair is free from its braid and the loose tendrils catch in the breeze occasionally. I watch this lazily, and wish for the hundredth time this evening that I could just freeze in this moment forever.

I'm listening to Peeta read _Romeo and Juliet_, one of the books Dr. Aurelius sent many months ago. We've read through it several times together, but as the education we received in District Twelve was almost completely lacking in the literature department it is slow going.

"Read that part again," I say.

Peeta reads:

_If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, _

_My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: _

_My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne; _

_And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit _

_Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. _

_I dreamt my lady came and found me dead- _

_Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave _

_to think!- _

_And breathed such life with kisses in my lips, _

_That I revived, and was an emperor. _

_Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, _

_When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! _

"I don't think I would have had hope after that dream," I say. "I think I would have been expecting something bad. And it is so cruel...he thinks that everything is going to be okay, and then he's crushed in the next few lines."

Peeta chuckles.

"Yeah, the life of a star-crossed lover is kind of like that...you think it's all going to be fine and then the Game changes...or gets changed back if you're us."

"Now that we've read this it is kind of disturbing that we were going to use poison in the 74th," I say absentmindedly. "If I didn't know better I'd almost think they wanted it to be a double suicide...it would have fit better with the story and made for a more dramatic ending."

"How many people in the Capitol do you think really read this book Katniss? I doubt very many. Dr. Aurelius said he had a bit of trouble finding a copy."

"Well it is a sad story anyway. Let's stop here for today and let Romeo think his dreams are going to come true."

"Do you ever have good dreams?" he asks gently.

I have to think about it.

"Kind of. What happens is I'll start dreaming and it will be nice...spending time with Prim or my mother. Sometimes I dream of you," I say, and I feel my cheeks get hot. It seems so intimate to admit to dreaming about someone, though I imagine that I am very silly in my embarrassment. I suppose I will never completely stop feeling exposed. "Anyway, the dream starts out good, some kind of memory, or some nice moment that never happened but that I want to see happen. But then that part ends and something bad creeps in. Funny thing is I can always tell a moment or two before it happens...I get this sick feeling in my stomach and I feel like I'm falling a bit, like things are coming out of sync."

He is listening to me, contemplating what I'm saying.

"Do you ever have good dreams?" I ask.

He smiles kind of sadly and his lips form a line. He shakes his head a little.

I let it drop, but this makes me incredibly sad, that this man who is so kind and gentle has something broken in his mind that will forever be fractured, and won't allow him true peace when he sleeps.

"At least the watching days don't seem to be happening to me anymore."

I reach up my hand and place it on his cheek. He turns his mouth to my palm and kisses it, exhaling as he does. The sensation of his breath on my skin, even in this innocent way is very affecting, and I experience the competing feelings of desire and apprehension. "I'm going to get dinner on the fire," I murmur.

"Okay. Do you want help?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. He trails his hand down my back when I stand, and the sensation sends a shudder through me.

I prepare dinner quickly. Root vegetables and rabbit. We sit across from one another on a blanket on the ground, our food between us. We eat in silence, though I catch him staring at me a few times. He catches me staring at him twice. The second time he smiles at me.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing…it's just…sometimes it seems like I'm looking at you for the first time. You know how you sometimes have that feeling like you've done something before?"

"Like deja vu?"

"Yeah, but this is the opposite. I look at you and it is almost like I've never seen you before, like you are someone completely new to me. Does that ever happen to you?"

"No, not really. I mean you surprise me sometimes…you'll do something that I don't expect, but it is never like you are someone new to me. I feel like I've known you forever. But I think that is probably because I actually have been paying attention to you since we were five."

"Ah, when you say that it always makes my heart break a little bit," I say.

"What?"

"Stuff about being in love with me since you were five…I feel so…ill-equipped."

"Well, when did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That you loved me?"

I turn and look into his eyes. I think for a moment before responding.

"I asked Finnick once how he knew he loved Annie, and he said she snuck up on him. I think it has been the same for me. I mean when we were Reaped and the whole thing started I felt like you were thrust upon me...sorry, I know that sounds awful. But over time little things just started to stack up. I think that this must say something very bad about me, but it was the moments when I thought I was going to lose you that I felt it the strongest. But it's not like that anymore," I say quickly. "I definitely feel love for you now as a part of who I am, and it doesn't have to be in jeopardy for me to be aware of it."

He nods at me seriously before narrowing his eyes a little.

"So no one moment?"

I think hard trying to pick something out of the thousands of moments.

"Okay, if I was going to pick one, I think it was the day when we were walking into town to get your paints and we got into that fight about my not wanting to be married or have children."

A smirk settles on his lips.

"You realized that you loved me when we were having a fight?"

"Yes," I say, feeling a bit defensive. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," he says neutrally, the smile still on his mouth. "Leave it to you to fall in love with me during a moment of adversity."

I return the smile, because in a way he is right, but I want to make sure that he understands something.

"It was you. I didn't want you to live a life without love. And I couldn't imagine my life without you in it. I guess that was the first time I realized that I was going to have to figure out how to do this. Does that make sense?"

He nods.

"Yes, for you that make perfect sense. It also explains the panic attack."

We both chuckle a little over that.

"Even if it makes me feel kind of bad I like your story better anyway…that you fell in love with me when we were five. I wonder what it would have taken for us to be together if we hadn't been Reaped."

A wide grin lights up his face.

"So let me tell you about my plans to win your heart before we were taken for the Games."

And he starts telling me stories, some of which are sweet and some of which make me laugh, and none of which, I feel certain, would have worked. So for this much I am grateful to the Games, because with everything that was taken from me, at least they gave me this person to love.

* * *

**AN: And so this is the end. I hope that you enjoyed reading and thank you so much to all of the people who set alerts and reviewed my story. I would love it if you reviewed at the end to let me know what you think, especially regarding the change in POV to Haymitch at the beginning of the chapter. I feel that there is a story to be written about Haymitch in my future…but we will have to see.**

**A very special thank you to LittlePlasticCastle for all of her help and support throughout the writing of this story. She also has a lovely HG one-shot that is amazing, so as soon as you are done writing your review for this ;-) please pop on over and read her story. **


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